Dreams Come True
by Terra King
Summary: Mary does not believe in true love, but what happens when she meets a man who makes her feel things she never knew she could? A man who will do everything within his power to make her his? Will a sweet dream finally come true? Please read and review!
1. Chapter 1

Mary had never been one to be fascinated by the beauty of nature. She infinitely preferred the quietness and privacy of her rooms, the peace and beauty of the Scriptures, and the company of good and holy men and women who have devoted their lives to the service of God, and worked in harmony to know His mind, and find out what His will was, and to do it wholeheartedly. The tapestries and statues of the saints and Angels, especially those of the Virgin Mary, had a special, almost magical way of soothing her nerves and calming her mind that few, very few, had managed to achieve. Even the fortress-like walls of convents and churches, and the eternally serene, eternally solemn nuns and priests, were highly appealing to her. What little time that she had to herself and only herself was spent in reading, praying, and in meditation. She prayed when she got up from bed every morning, and prayed when she went to sleep every night – a habit that, she was proud to say, she had instilled in her beloved little sister, Elizabeth, and was now trying to do the same with her precious little brother, Edward.

Yes, no one can possibly doubt or argue that Mary Tudor was the most pious, most devout, most serious of King Henry the Eighth's three children. She was after all, the daughter of Katherine of Aragon, who was the classic epitome of a passionately pious, passionately devout, passionately religious Roman Catholic. It was only natural that she had inherited her mother's passions and her mother's piety – which child does not take after his or her parents in looks or characteristics?

Indeed, there were some who said that the late Queen Katherine still lived spiritually and mentally through her daughter, who took after her not only in habits and piety, but also in looks – Mary's dark hair, Mary's dark eyes, the proud and regal way she held her head and shoulders, and the swanlike grace that she glided with, they were all the beauties that her mother could boast of when she had been at the peak of her youth and vitality.

Today, however, Mary was doing something that her mother very rarely did in her private, personal time.

Instead of reading the Bible or a book of sermons, or praying with wholehearted earnestness for the well-being and happiness of her family and country, or meditating on life, nature and God, Mary was seated on a bench of white marble, in an orchard that ran down to the river.

It was midsummer, and like the rest of nature, the orchard was at the very peak of its bloom and beauty and vitality; the grass beneath her feet was a plush carpet, soft, fresh, green, and absolutely fragrant, dotted here and there by tiny gorgeous blossoms of every imaginable colour; the branches of the tall, stately trees were heavy with beautiful ripe apples that seemed to burn in the golden sunshine like perfect red rubies; the river flowed with water that seemed to be as clear as the air itself, sparkling and murmuring in a voice that seemed to come from another world, haunting and musical; the sunshine was golden and glorious, being warm yet gentle; zephyrs engaged in an exotic, gentle dance with the leaves and the blossoms.

It was probably the very first time in many long, wretched years, that Mary reveled in the beauty around her, thoroughly allowing herself to be seduced by the perfume of the flowers, as well as the sweet scent of the ripe apples, be comforted by the cooling breezes, and be hypnotized by the running water. For she was plagued by a turmoil that, for the first time in her memory, neither her books nor her prayers nor her meditation was able to rid her of, and Elizabeth – her bright, clever Elizabeth – had suggested that she take a walk in the orchards, saying that the fresh air and the sweet apple fragrance might do her a power of good, helping her to clear her mind and calm her heart. And she was very glad she had taken her advice – the beauty of nature in its fullest bloom and vigor was giving her a powerful sense of serenity, of peace, not unlike the one that her books and her prayers and her meditation gave. Her nerves, her mind, and her heart were slowly, but surely going back to the loving old state of normalcy.

Perhaps she should do this more often.

But…

Yes, in the life of Princesses, especially one like Mary Tudor, there is always a "but" that disrupts those golden moments of peace and quiet and bliss, a "but" ruins everything, especially since fate and destiny can be as playful and mischievous as a master trickster when it came to certain individuals…

Out of the blue, Mary detected a new scent in the air, a scent that was more powerful than that of the flowers and fruits, yet strangely similar to them, in a way. It was a scent like a perfume, a powerful special perfume that seemed to be a harmonious blend of delicious, intoxicating smells: roses – lush, sultry roses as red as passion itself – bursting beautifully into bloom, then there was a deeper smell like good, fine leather fit for a Prince, and then a tang like the sea.

It was the scent of a man whom she had just met.

A man who was the most enchanting creature she had ever seen.

A man who frightened and excited her by making her feel things she had never felt before, and never thought herself capable of.

A man whom, for some unapparent, unexplainable reason, she felt as if she had met before, like in a dream, or in a dream of a dream, despite the fact that she could swear by her life, by her honour, and by her faith, that she had never ever seen him before.

A man who was the reason for the turmoil that plagued her, a turmoil that was formerly diminishing, but was now resurfacing again with a vengeance, as though the scent of its master was a boost of power.

A shadow fell on the grass, and someone slid into a sitting position beside her. Mary could not help it; she turned her head to look at the one who had intruded upon her state of mental, inner peace, the master of that exotic, utterly seductive perfume.

True enough, it was Duke Philip of Bavaria.

He was graceful even in sitting, and his warm, dark brown eyes were fixed on the river as well. An incredible wave of passions washed over Mary: her pulse raced and her body tingled with his nearness…her senses were more alive…the sky was bluer…the flowers were prettier…the air was fresher and sweeter…because Philip was there. She had a sudden, insane urge to wrap her arms around his neck, and kiss him like there was no tomorrow. Then that small voice of wisdom, and that sense of self-control and royal dignity – both of whom sounded and seemed remarkably like her mother – kicked in, and she managed to get a grip on herself…but only in the nick of time. By sheer force of will, she made herself look how she normally did when she was with a stranger: cool, calm, composed, and regal. She hoped, desperately, that he had missed the flash of expression that betrayed her true feelings for him – the darkening of her eyes, the flushing of her cheeks, and the smile on her lips.

She mentally breathed a little sigh of relief when he appeared not to have noticed, his attention seemed to be fixated on the running, sparkling, murmuring river.

But what do you all think, ladies and gentlemen? Do you think he had not noticed it?

"Where does it go to, Lady Mary?" he asked at last, after a moment's silence, his voice the deep, rich brass of a desirable, sensuous man.

"To the sea, Your Grace." Mary replied, as quietly and dignified as she can, though the tingling of her body became stronger at the sound of his rich deep voice. "It flows down to the sea."

Philip nodded. He turned to look at her, a smile on his handsome face. "We should go with it, you and me."

Stunned, speechless, Mary turned to look at him, and saw from the lack of the beguiling, provocative sparkle in his dark brown eyes and the firm set of his smiling lips that he was not jesting, that he meant what he said – literally. Her heart, as treacherous as her body, could not help but sing with a joy the like of which she had never known, though her face remained a pale picture of astonishment and wonder, betraying absolutely no hint of what she truly felt – a feat that she had been able to achieve through years of practicing how to conceal her true emotions and feelings.

Then, she appeared to gather herself, forcing a fake chuckle, causing him to reflect that, whatever else she was, she was certainly not slow of wit, or bereft of control. This, however, only served to inflame his desire for her.

"Surely you jest, Your Grace." She said, a smile that he recognized as the shallow empty practiced smirk of a child of royalty plastered on her beautiful face.

"Why do you call me "Your Grace" in such a manner, when you know that we are on familiar terms?" He asked, the severe frankness and sincerity of his tone erasing the smile from her face completely, and making her midnight-blue eyes widen a little.

"We have not met before." Mary replied with the same simple, quiet dignity she had applied when she answered his first question, though her insides were trembling with fear and…dare she confess it? …excitement. With the smile gone from his face, Mary realised that his gaze was smoldering, with his eyes brooding and intense, dark with an emotion that she could not determine, but one made her feel simultaneously hot and cold, with butterflies fluttering in her stomach, her heart beating so fast and so loudly that she fancied it could rival a war drum, and an unnatural sensation of timidity and shyness spreading throughout her being. And since when was she, Mary Tudor, the precious beloved child of King Henry and Queen Katherine of England, a Princess of the Blood (no matter what they said), with an assurance that no one can learn and a grace that came from absolute confidence in her position in the world, _timid and shy_?

Was it because that a certain tall, dark, well-built, handsome young man was looking at her as though he wanted to eat her up alive? Looking at her as a starving dog would a great piece of juicy, succulent meat? Looking at her as a greedy child would marchpane and candied fruits? Looking at her as a man would a woman he loved with a burning desire and a passion that was as potent as a love potion?

Unconsciously, Mary's dainty white hands went out to smooth some imaginary wrinkles from her bodice, her sleeves, and her full skirts, as if ensuring that she was not sitting naked before Philip. It was taking all the considerable self-control she had to maintain her regal, calm composure, and not to blush. Her heart, however, was singing louder, more joyfully, and for the first time in her life, Mary felt as if her soul was soaring into the heavens.

"But only in body, Lady Mary. In soul and in spirit, we have already met. We have known each other in another life; you and I both know it, know it with a certainty that we cannot describe, yet shakes us to the core nonetheless. This is not the only life where we could have met. There's something between us already. You felt the power of it, and that's why you left the hall. Am I right, Lady Mary? If I am, could you rightfully resist it?"

Every word he said was true, unarguably, undoubtedly, unquestionably true.

But Mary was torn.

Part of her was rejoicing at his words. It was that tiny, yet special, part of her that always believed, always hoped that, despite her bastard status, and the fact that she was not getting any younger; she could, one day, find and know a great love that will always be true and pure. A love that was as constant as the stars above. A love that will last until the very end of time. That she may be happily married, and have children of her own. After all, long walks in the moonlight, unexpected tokens of affection, a gallant young Prince on a majestic horse…what girl hasn't dreamed of being swept off her feet by love in a fairytale romance? And what woman does not want the heat and the tenderness and the passion of a man that she could wholeheartedly love and trust?

The other part of her, however – the cold, austere, rational part that had been ruling her life with a fist of iron ever since her beloved mother was put aside for that shameless, brazen harlot whose only good deed was to mother her beloved little sister, Elizabeth, however, was chiding her for responding, not physically but mentally, to Philip's words, and for harbouring such foolish and meaningless dreams. How can a man who had just met her and barely knew her love her so? It was impossible, absolutely impossible! His words were but the frivolous, childish nonsense of poets, men who have nothing else better to do than to compose such foolishness to enchant the opposite sex. And once they had gotten what they wanted, they would break the very hearts that they had stolen with their lies and their masks. Oh, and let's not forget, he is a heretic, a man damned to hell!

Besides, she had her younger siblings, Elizabeth and Edward, to think about. Her sister and her brother both loved her dearly (an affection she returned in equal, if not greater, measure), and with their mothers dead, depended on her. They needed her. Mother of God, they practically looked up to her as a second mother! Could she "abandon" them to become the property of a complete and utter stranger?

"Forgive me, Your Grace, but I think that what you are talking of is nonsense." She said, quietly, weakly, trying to gather that famous courage, those nerves of steel, which she had inherited from her mother. The question is: where did they go? "Absolute nonsense. It is the frivolous, childish foolishness that poets compose to trap the admiration of women, and then break their hearts. And I am proud to say that I am no such woman. I am not a woman to be won with fair words and gifts." She could almost hear the third crowing of a cock as she denied her true feelings, her inner turmoil.

"It is not nonsense, Lady Mary." Philip replied flatly, his brown eyes devouring her. "It is not, as you address it, frivolous, childish foolishness that poets use to trap women and break their hearts. It is the truth. The honest truth. The gospel truth. Our bodies, our minds, our hearts, and our souls call out to each other."

Mary shook her head. Without even knowing why or how, she was close to tears. She did not know what to do. She did not know what to say. She had never felt anything like this before. It was a type of madness, this emotion. It was terrible and wonderful and completely paralyzing. It was something so strange, yet so eternal.

"Please, I beg you, Your Grace, stop this." she said with silent desperation. "Please stop this madness."

Philip shook his head. His eyes, if possible, became more intense. In fact, a sense of passion and desire radiated from him, as though he was giving off burning heat. Before he met Mary, he was a ghost. He walked and he ate and he drank and he laughed…but he was just a ghost, a shadowy phantom, an empty shell utterly devoid of substance. But now, from the instant he met Mary, he was alive, gloriously alive, as Jesus had risen from the dead. No longer was he a lumbering, foolish, bumbling two-legged being, always searching for the other half that would make him a perfect sphere once again. He had found his other half, Mary, and he had no intention of letting her go, _ever_. "No, I will not." He said passionately, his voice like iron. "We are the lost halves of each other's soul, Lady Mary. You know it just as well as I do."

Taking a deep sharp breath to calm her agitation, her treacherous, sinfully disobedient nerves, Mary rose and glided away from the river to an apple tree taller than the rest, and leaned against it for comfort.

That scent – that clean and wholesome scent of freshly bloomed roses, good leather, and fine salt, however, invaded her nostrils again, telling her that Philip had followed her. He was still staring at her with that highly intense, highly brooding, strangely dark look that seemed to smolder her with its fiery passion. He was positively burning for her.

"Lady Mary…"

Mary silenced him by raising her hand. She mentally drew a breath to steady herself. She reminded herself that she was a fully-grown woman of almost twenty-three-years-old, that she was the daughter of King Henry and Queen Katherine of England, a granddaughter of their Most Catholic Majesties, King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella of Spain, and a Princess _born and bred_. From the moment she could talk she had been taught to guard her tongue and conceal her true emotions, her innermost desires. She was a skilful player in a highly competitive, highly wealthy court where position and appearances mean everything. She was no shy, timid, naïve little girl who mooned over a pretty male face and surrendered easily to honey-sweet words and beautiful gifts.

"Your Grace," she started steadily, her voice gentle as she stared at the man whom she knew, beyond the slightest trace of doubt, to be her soul's mate. "It is impossible. It can never work out. There is a world of difference between us. You are a handsome and charming young man, glamourous, confident, and wealthy, of a high rank that you are absolutely sure of and can be justly proud of, with the voice of an Angel and the wits of an accomplished scholar. I am…I am…I do not even know who I am. Nobody does, actually. Nobody, including me myself, knows if I am a Princess or a bastard or a nothing. Once, I can look at you straight in the eye, with my nose high and my chin proud, and tell you that I am a child born to rights that others can only dream of, that I am a Princess born to luxury and beauty, the daughter of two great monarchs, and destined for great and wonderful things. But now, I cannot. My current rank is one that I am not proud of and never will, the only reason I accepted it was to avoid the executioner's axe, and I would never ever forgive myself for that moment's cowardice. I am plain and common, devout and dull. I have no glamour, I have no charm. It costs my younger siblings, especially my Elizabeth, a daily heartbeat to make me smile and laugh and play. It can never ever work out between us."

"_Nonsense!"_ Philip thundered, startling Mary. _"Absolute nonsense!" _How could this wonderful, incredible woman say such things? How can she not see how special she truly was? How can she degrade herself so? And…_how can she say that they were not meant to be? _

"Our world of difference exists only in your imagination, Lady Mary, not in real life! What you have listed were but insignificant ramblings!"

In his passion, he gripped her shoulders and gazed intensely into her eyes. Mary was actually shivering a little, for Philip now looked like a dangerous, hungry, desperate predator who has finally managed to catch its prey after a long and painfully exhausting chase; his dark brown eyes were blazing, his nostrils flaring, his countenance burning with emotion. And Mary had never believed that she could drive a man mad with passion, crazed with desire. She had never believed that she could make a man lust for her, hunger for her. The realization that she can and had was shocking, unexpected, and…oh, Holy Mary, Mother of God, please forgive her…delightful. Her soul, already soaring, was now flying higher and higher, towards the Seventh Heaven of Paradise. Her heart's singing was now so full of joy, so full of passion, that she fancied it would burst. "To me, you are a Princess, a true Princess, a gracious and noble Princess, and a true heir of Queen Katherine of Aragon. You are not plain and common and dull. You are someone special and unique. You are a girl educated far beyond your sex, a young woman with marvellous gifts, and the sense to use them to the best of your ability, elegant in your mind as well as your stature, with a haunting and musical voice. Do you know that nothing, absolutely nothing at all, prepared me for your beauty? Your beauty that comes from inside? To me, you are the most beautiful creature on God's earth. You are the loveliest woman I have ever met. As God and all the Angels and blessed souls in Paradise are my witnesses, you are the most intoxicating, most incredible woman I have ever seen."

Two large tears, hot and salty, rolled down Mary's flushed cheeks.

She could not believe it.

It cannot be true.

It was too unbelievable be true.

Philip, a man could have had his pick of any woman, desired her with a true and potent passion? He found her a true Princess? He found her extraordinary? He found her marvellously gifted, elegant, with a beautiful voice? He found her incomparably beautiful, both inside and outside? He found her utterly intoxicating, utterly incredible?

Not knowing what to do, not knowing what to say, she simply stared at him, taking in his finely-boned features, the blazing dark brown eyes, the straight nose, the full, pink, sensuous lips, the beautifully-trimmed circle-beard. By the Blessed Virgin, he was such a handsome man. She did not notice the tears that were still flowing down her cheeks, so suddenly entranced she was by his dark beauty. She felt as though she cannot get her fill of looking at him. Then, as if noticing how he had frightened her, the raging fire went out of his eyes, though they still remained dark and intense, and his expression became gentle and tender again, despite retaining a hint of ferocity and passionate desire, and even that seemed to enhance his handsome features. Again that disarming, devastating smile, which revealed very white, even teeth. And those soft sensuous lips…

His hands went up and caressed her face with the soft, gentle caress of a lover, brushing away her tears and erasing the stains they left on her cheeks. He could not take his eyes off her. Her snow-white skin was so silky and so smooth to the touch, and seemed to be glowing with the sheen of a priceless, cream-coloured pearl. Her rich, thick, curly hair that hung to her waist in a cascade of dark chestnut was burnished by the sunshine. The crying had left a slight flush on her round cheeks. Her dark blue eyes were huge and bright and clear, staring at him with a multitude of emotions. But there was only one emotion that he wished to see in them.

He leaned forward and gently kissed her. Instantly, he felt the young Princess stiffen with shock. As quick as lightning, he slid his hands around to the small of her back, pressing her intimately against him. Expertly, he started to nibble at his captive's lips, urging them open so that his tongue could slip inside and mingle with her own.

Mary was frozen with shock. No man had ever done this to her before. However, the only thought that Mary registered was that she had never felt this way before. A deep warmth was flooding through her, a beautiful lassitude that left her incapable of resistance. In fact, it seemed as if a fire was starting to burn deep within, a fire that urged her to wrap her arms around Philip's neck and open her mouth under his onslaught. A fire that urged her to give Philip complete control and access, a fire that she obeyed. _Mother of God_, she mused, as her fingertips touched his thick, curly dark brown hair as she circled her arms around his neck. _His hair is so soft, softer than silk, softer than I had expected it to be…_

Philip deepened the kiss the moment Mary allowed him access, his heart roaring with triumph. He expertly stroked and coaxed Mary into responding to his demanding kisses, his tongue moving freely and insistently in her mouth. Cream, he thought, and vanilla. She tasted just like cream and vanilla. Pure, chaste, and absolutely luscious. And she is mine, _all mine, only mine_…his heart gave another victorious roar as his hands trembled down her back, played at her waist, and moved daringly over her hips.

Mary was lost. She felt as though she was melting. She had never expected that a kiss could feel so incredible. Philip tasted of something wonderful, something indescribable but, she was sure, uniquely him. His touch through the velvet robe and the thin lawn of her chemise was both shocking and glorious. The small voice of wisdom cried out that should put a stop to this now, but it was drowned out by the swell of great waves of feelings, not to mention that there was something in her soul that answered to something in Philip's soul, something in her heart of hearts that was telling her that it was right, very right. She had never known that she could feel like this. She did not know that such passions, such needs; such desires actually existed within her.

Honestly, she felt as though she were in Paradise, that she had been waiting all her life for this. She felt whole and complete. She felt…she felt…felt…felt…_happy. So happy._

Despite the fact that both wished for this moment – this special, magical moment – to last forever, it did not. They had to break apart, for air.

Mary was out of breath, and her head was spinning. She felt the blood rush to her cheeks, and knew without a doubt that she was blushing to the roots of her hair. She studied Philip, and went a shade redder upon seeing his eyes glazed over with intense desire, his tongue slipping out to lick his smiling lips, as if savouring the taste that lingered there. The monster in his heart was purring like a highly contented cat that had been fed a big bowl of fresh, forbidden cream.

They stared into each other's eyes for a long moment, Mary's arms still around Philip's neck, and his tightly around her slim waist, as if they were the only two people in the entire world.

Then, however, Mary was suddenly overcome by a wave of mental nausea, as the rational, serious part of her sprang back to life.

"What have I gotten myself into?" she mentally asked herself, involuntarily.

All sorts of questions were running through her head. But there were three that were most important.

"What have I done?"

"What have we done?"

"Why do I want more?"

One thing was for sure: she had to get away. She had to break free of this seductive, sinister spell while she still could. She had made a mistake – a serious, stupid mistake – but it can be salvaged.

With all the strength and will she could muster, Mary broke away. Her treacherous body and heart, however, instantly cried out in unspeakable protest at this, agonised over being so brutally torn away from the warmth and tenderness and comfort and safety of Philip's arms, Philip's embrace, and the steady, deep rhythm of his heartbeat.

The expression on Philip's handsome face was one of endearing confusion. "Mary? What's wrong?"

Coldly, powerfully, Mary said, "What happened just now was a mistake, Your Grace. A mistake in every sense of the word. That should not have happened. That must not have happened. I am not a woman to be played with. I am not, as I have said earlier on, a woman to be won with fair words and gifts, nor am I a silly, ignorant girl who instantly swoons and moons over a pretty male face, and can be bewitched by a cunning tongue. So please, I beg of you, stop this madness, and behave as a gentleman of your rank and stature would."

With a growl, Philip grabbed her shoulders again, his eyes flashing with unmistakable fury, his face fierce and glowering. "Mary…"

"It is _Lady Mary_ to you, Your Grace." Mary stated, icy and formal, though her traitor of a body was tingling at again experiencing the wonderful magic of his touch. "You may be the Duke of Bavaria, you may be the Queen's favourite cousin and foster older brother, but that does not excuse you from such simple and basic formalities. Nor does it allow you to act so wantonly and so audaciously. After all, I am, as you have said, a Princess of the Blood. Forgive me if I offend, Your Grace, but I would appreciate it infinitely if our future interactions could be confined to those necessitated by our mingling in the same company. I assume you do not wish to be bored to death by my incomparable dullness, or be subjected to my rude impertinence. And I can assure you, I have no desire to again be subjected to your madness or your unacceptable jests. Above all things, I do not wish for another irredeemably foolish and thoughtless incident like the one that just occurred – to our grave misfortune – to happen again." With that, she turned to leave.

But Philip grasped her wrist and twisted her around to face him again.

"You do not mean what you say." He said flatly, in a cold quiet voice that sent chills down Mary's spine. His eyes were two raging pools of fire, dark and determined. "You simply do not. I can see it in your eyes, as plain as day. And I can hear your heart and your soul crying out the truth. You desire me just as much as I desire you, Mary. You are my soul's mate, as much as I am yours."

"You are impossible." Mary retorted though gritted teeth, with far more firmness than she was feeling. "Impossible. This is wrong."

Philip's lips curled into a dangerous smile, much to her mingled horror and joy. Sweet Mary, Mother of God, this man simply had too much charm, was simply too gifted with male beauty: whether in pleasant, courteous politeness, whether in a temper or in a crazed state of passion, he was still a breathtakingly handsome man. "To deny it would be wrong. I love you, Mary. There is nothing to do but give in to it."

"_Never!"_ Mary cried, feeling the tears welling, and her body and senses treacherously responding to Philip. She tried to break free, but his grip on her was tight and firm.

"If there is one thing you should learn, Mary, is that once a Wittelsbach man meets the woman of his dreams, _he will not rest until he possesses her completely_," said Philip, licking his lips like a hungry wolf at the sight of her half-hearted struggling – if anything, it made her look all the more adorable to him. "You _will_ be mine. You _will_ be my wife and my Duchess, and share my bed, my name, and my wealth. I _will_ have you, even if I have to go to Hell for it and burn for all eternity. You can go ahead and try to struggle, try to resist, but I warn you that it will be futile. If you do not come with me, then I will come for you!"

"No, Your Grace, you will not!" Mary said passionately, her voice like iron.

"We will see, my fine Princess," Philip retorted calmly, letting her go. "We will see. If it is a fight you want, Mary, then it is a fight you are going to get from me. But know that you have already lost. For we are bound by eternal and unbreakable bonds of soul and spirit, body and heart, you can run, but you cannot hide! You can deceive others, but not yourself, and especially not me!"

"You are truly the most hateful man I have ever been cursed to meet!" She flung at him, and then turned away in an imperious, feminine swish of silk and velvet, leaving the sound of his laughter behind her.


	2. Chapter 2

Elizabeth was brushing Mary's rich, dark chestnut hair as she sat before the silvered mirror of their bedchamber – a nightly ritual that both sisters took turns performing, and one that they genuinely enjoyed, with one sister marveling at the soft silky sensation of glossy, lustrous tresses slipping through her fingers, and the other sister giving herself up to the idle pleasure and delight in seeing her hair becoming sleek and shiny from the brushing. They had two very fine brushes, one of pure gold and the other pure silver, and Elizabeth was using one after the other, as if she were grooming a horse.

Tonight, however, Elizabeth could sense that there was something wrong, very wrong, with the situation.

Mary, the older sister who was a mother to her in so many ways, was staring at her reflection, but her eyes, pools of midnight blue, were quite blank. She was not seeing herself at all. She was not relaxing to the pleasant sensations of hair brushing, either. It was all very strange.

Then again, Mary had been acting very strangely ever since she got back from her walk in the orchards. One moment, she would be staring blankly into space, her countenance dazed, pretty much like what she was doing right now. The next, she would be muttering fiercely under her breath, and pace back and forth, like a man impatiently waiting the delivery of his child. And the next, she would be caressing her lips, which – Elizabeth had observed under closer inspection – were, most surprisingly, puffy and swollen, with a lost, dazed look on her face, then her cheeks would flush, and she would shake her head with frantic forcefulness, bury her face in her hands and will the blush to go away.

They had received an invitation to go dine with their father, stepmother, and brother, but Mary had turned it down instant she heard that Duke Philip of Bavaria would be there as well, and told the lady-in-waiting that she and Elizabeth would be having their evening meal in their rooms. The lady-in-waiting had protested vigorously, saying that the King, the Queen, the Prince and the Duke would be very disappointed if they did not accept it, and went as far as to telling them how happy their brother, Edward, would be if they showed up, and that they would surely be a merry happy company altogether, but Mary was adamant, and finally dismissed the lady-in-waiting with an imperious gesture that no servant dared to ignore.

To say that Elizabeth was surprised by this would have been a vast understatement. Mary usually accepted such invitations with great eagerness, saying that one of the pleasures she enjoyed the most was to simply have a meal with her entire family, whose chances of getting together and enhancing the vital bonds of family, love, and trust were but occasional. Indeed, a Tudor royal family dinner such as this was rare, quite rare, and the last thing Elizabeth expected of Mary was to turn one down. She herself was rather upset that her sister had turned it down on behalf of them both. After all, family dinners have always been fun, lively and enjoyable, with the very best of food and the finest sweetest wines served on gold dishes and goblets of crystal shells, with forks and knives of silver set with precious stones, and an artless, gentle flow of conversation throughout the meal, one can everyone – even young innocent little Edward – can participate in and enjoy.

It was not that she objected to eating alone with her sister, of course – Mary, despite what one might think of her, was actually quite a witty and charming conversationalist in her own right, and the two of them can chat about literally anything throughout their meal, be it languages, music, singing, dancing, poetry, or even gossip. Also, Mary, who loved her little sister, always selected the nicest morsels to place on Elizabeth's plate, encouraging her to eat more, saying that she was a growing girl who needed plenty of food.

It was just that, though Elizabeth loved eating alone with Mary, she loved eating with her entire family more, since it was quite a rare occasion, and she knew that they were few and far in between…but she kept silent.

She did not say anything.

Not when they took their evening meal which, for once, was passed in total and absolute silence, the only hint of normalcy being that Mary still played the doting host, picking out the tastiest foods and the sweetest fruits for her little sister.

Not when they took their nightly baths in the hammam that was built for their use and only their use.

For, despite the fact that Elizabeth was only little more than six-years-old, she was unduly precocious, possessing an uncommon intellect that sparkled like a diamond and was as keen as the sharpest razor. She also had eyes, and an acute sense of logic and deduction. And Mary's behaviour and ever-changing countenances were more than enough to tell Elizabeth that her older sister was in absolutely no state to attend a family dinner, and the fact that she turned down the invitation on behalf of them both showed that Mary needed her, needed her company to keep herself sane and reasonable, to prevent herself from becoming even more lost in a great unsolvable maze of thoughts.

And Elizabeth could not refuse Mary that, not when Mary was so lost and so confused, not when it was really quite touching to know that Mary's love for her was to the extent that she actually saw her as something that kept her from falling apart, as some kind of precious anchor to sane reality.

_But __it was all very strange, very peculiar._

What on earth happened to her sister? Her sister who was always so calm, so composed, so controlled? Why was she so out of sorts? What on earth happened to her?

Well, there was only one way to find out.

"Mary? Mary? _Mary?_"

"Oh!" said Mary, startled. "Yes, Beth?" she asked, without turning around, obtaining her little sister's gaze in the mirror.

"Is there something wrong?"

Mary shook her head hastily. "There isn't, Beth. Why do you ask?"

Elizabeth gave a little frown. "You cannot fool me, Mary. You are not, and never have been, a good liar. I may be young, but I am not stupid, I have eyes to see, ears to hear, and a mind to think and to reason. You have not been yourself. You have been acting very strangely. It makes me worry about you, it makes me unhappy. What is wrong?"

Mary nipped her lower lip with her white, even teeth. So her little sister had noticed. Then again, she reflected, her abnormal behaviour had indeed been so blatant, so obvious, that only a blind fool will not notice it. But what astonished and dismayed Mary a little was that Elizabeth refused to accept the general, universal assurance that a troubled adult would give to a young naïve innocent child when it had sensed that something was wrong: the assurance that everything was fine, perfectly fine, and there was nothing to worry about. Not only that, her Elizabeth had gone straight to the point, hitting it with direct sharp accuracy, like an expert hunter would his prey. It was quite uncommon for a girl who was only little more than six years old. Lady Bryan had truly not jesting when she said that Elizabeth's age always belied her wits, that she was as sharp as a razor, and that she had remarkably fine powers of observation, something which Mary now knew to be simultaneously blessing and curse, given that some of the things her little sister observed were better left unobserved, untouched, and unmentioned. Not to mention that what was truly troubling her was a sensitive and uncomfortable subject, one that she did not know how to broach to her little sister.

After all, for all her preciosity, her razor-sharp wits, Elizabeth was still, undeniably, arguably, a child, and how could a child possibly understand something as complex and difficult as affairs of the heart, affairs between the sexes?

"Well…" she sighed. "It is just…is just…is just that I suddenly have an overwhelming deal of thoughts in my mind, Beth. And I am apparently trying to resolve them, one by one, but it is difficult. Very difficult." _If not impossible,_ a teasing, treacherous little voice in her mind whispered. _He is right in saying that you can run, but you cannot hide. You can lie to others, but not to yourself, never to yourself, and never ever to him._ "I am sorry if I have upset you, Beth. It is just that I have never been in a state like this before. But don't worry; there is nothing a good night's sleep will not fix. I think I will be back to normal tomorrow." she gave her little sister a gentle, assuring smile.

Elizabeth stared long and hard at her older sister for several moments, an expression of deep concentrated thought on her countenance. She stared at Mary as if she would understand something about her, something that made her so different from her usual regal, dignified, queenly self. She stared at her as if she was something she had never seen before, something that was exotic and fascinating to the extent that she had to thoroughly take in every detail of it. She stared at her as if she was not looking at her only with her eyes, but also her heart and her soul. The scrutiny made Mary naturally uncomfortable, but before she could say anything, Elizabeth said and did something that made her stare at their reflections in a stunned, shocked silence, and wonder if her little sister was truly only a six-and-a-half-year old child. Surely no child at this tender age could be so wise.

Elizabeth had, apparently, placed her small white hand on Mary's chest, on the left side. "It is your heart, isn't it, Mary? It is beating and stirring with emotions that do you originally thought yourself incapable of. It is flooding your mind with torrents of thoughts you never ever expected yourself to be pondering about. It is a feeling of recognition, of your bones melting. One moment you feel strangely hot, hotter than fire, as if you are a piece of cheese, slowly and gently melting over a fire. The next moment, you feel cold, deliciously cold, as if you have drunk the freshest, cleanest, most chilled mountain water. It is a feeling like no other. It is a feeling that, so far, no one, not even me or Edward, has ever sparked in you, a feeling that makes you alive, gloriously alive. Someone – someone special and magical – has touched your mind and your heart."

"How…how…how…did…you…"

Elizabeth smiled knowingly at her older sister. "I might be only a child, Mary, but I have been told things that I have to know sooner or later, things like the love between a man and a woman, and how children are born from that love. Also, the eyes are the windows of the soul, Mary. Your eyes say anything."

"What?"

"There is a new look to your eyes, Mary." Elizabeth explained gently. "They are softer and gentler than I have ever seen them to be. The shutters that you have closed over the deepest, most secret part of your soul have disappeared. There is an affectionate and tender gleam in your eyes. There also seems to be a shadow of someone, a tall dark figure, stirring behind your eyes."

"I cannot believe how you noticed that, Beth." Mary shook her chestnut head in disbelief. Then, her eyes widened in alarm as she registered something fully. Her Elizabeth, her sister – _her young, naïve, innocent, sheltered, darling little sister_ – had already been told things like the _love between the sexes and about childbirth?_ She frowned heavily, her sisterly heart swelling with indignation. _Who was it?_ _Who was the God-forsaken, utterly audacious fool who dared to impart to her pure and innocent little sister…such…such…such…knowledge? What right did he have to do so? And how dare he? Who was he? Well, whoever he or she was, he or she had better prayed that Princess Mary Tudor did not catch him or her, and never found out who he or she was, because if she did…_

As if reading her mind, Elizabeth gave a chuckle of genuine amusement, making her older sister stare at her again at astonishment and wonder. "You don't have to be angry with Kat or Father Bors, Mary." She said gently. "In fact, you should thank them for having spared you the trouble of broaching a most sensitive, most awkward, most uncomfortable subject with me. And besides, I know that did they were not lying or exaggerating. They put it in the simplest and most basic terms. There was nothing dark or dirty or bad in what they have told me."

Mary shook her head firmly, resolving to have a word with her sister's governess and confessor about this. No matter what, Elizabeth was still too young and too innocent to know about such facts of life, and it should have been she who informed her sister about such…such…such…things. After all, she was not only Elizabeth's older sister, but also Elizabeth's foster mother and guardian, and she had the right to decide what was best for the little girl. She had a duty to protect her sister's ears and mind until the time was ripe for her to know the things that she was still supposed to be ignorant of. The knowledge that Kat and Father Bors had pretty much ruined her plans and tainted her sister's innocence was infuriating.

Now, all she could do was to try to repair whatever damage they had done, try to salvage whatever was left of her sister's shining childish innocence. "What did they tell you?" She asked, anxiously. "What exactly did they tell you, Beth? Tell me everything they said. Please. This is important. Extremely important."

"Well…" Elizabeth's brow furrowed as she tried to recall what exactly her governess and her confessor had told her. "Kat said that men are born crested, women cloven…down there." Mary blushed, but looked less serious and less grave. It was a comfort to know that, at the very least; Kat Ashley had chosen her words with care. "To make a child, the crest must go into the cloven part, but such an act is only sanctified within marriage. Father Bors said that if one does the act with someone else, someone who is not the spouse that he or she has married in the sight of God, then it would considered a sin, a cardinal sin, known as adultery."

_Well, so far, so good…_

"Father Bors also said that each soul who was created was matched, given a twin made from the same essence. In the Book of Genesis, this is told in the allegory of Adam's twin, Eve, being created from his rib, which is to say his own essence, as she is the flesh of his flesh and bone of his bone, spirit of his spirit. The love of twin souls is a pure, sacred, and holy emotion through which children – the most innocent and most precious of all creatures – are brought into the world. It also acts a remedy against sin. Then he gave me a description of this emotion, which I have told you earlier, and concluded with telling me that as the beloveds come together, they celebrate their love in the flesh: they are no longer two, but one, their souls merging as one through the sanctity of the kiss."

Mary released a huge sigh of intense relief. _Good, good, good…_there was no damage done after all. Her little sister's purity and innocence as a child had not been tainted after all. She would not need to scold Kat Ashley and Father Bors severely after all. In fact, Elizabeth had a point in saying that she actually owed them her thanks for broaching, as Elizabeth had said, a most sensitive, most awkward, most uncomfortable subject so simply and so beautifully. However, she would still need to have a word with them about revealing such facts of the adult world to her little Elizabeth.

For a moment there was silence as Mary gazed at their faces in their mirror, the two of them, as ever, a contrast in looks, in colouring, in expression. Then, a sudden thought that made her both happy and wistfully sad struck her: Elizabeth, the little girl whom she taught to walk, the little girl whom she taught to read and write, the little sister who was a daughter to her in more ways than one, was a child no more, not only in thoughts and knowledge, but also in appearance.

Indeed, it was an undeniable fact that Princess Elizabeth Tudor had grown up, and had shed her infant chubbiness.

The girl who had been brushing her older sister's hair with practiced, skilful ease was tall for her age, lithe of limb and slender, moving with the grace of a willow tree in the first breezes of spring, and there was a new pride in her. She was not an exact splitting image of the enchantress that her infamous mother had been, but rather a softer, gentler, more serene, and some say prettier, version of Anne Boleyn. She had an air of sincere honesty that no one would have ever expected of a girl whose mother had died on the scaffold with the names of witch, adulteress, and whore. Her hair was one of the two elements of her appearance that served as _solid, irrefutable proof_ that King Henry the Eighth _was her father_: it hung to her waist in thick, shiny copper waves, a rare stunning reddish-gold hue, a colour that was absolutely, _perfectly identical_ to that of King Henry's hair and beard. The other element was her brow: high, clear, and bright, it was the _mirror image _of that of King Henry's, and not even the sharpest eyes or the most critical tongues can dispute that. Her nose was a perfect tilt, and her mouth a rosebud of pure cherubic perfection. Her skin was like porcelain, white and smooth without a single flaw, and her cheeks were lightly flushed, like the pink of cherry blossoms in spring. But the most arresting feature was her eyes, Anne Boleyn's eyes. Huge and wide and delicately-lidded, with dark arched eyebrows and eyelashes so long that they swept her cheeks, they glistened like onyx, and actually changed colour depending on Elizabeth's mood, sometimes midnight-green, then regalia-purple. They were eyes that had cast a spell so powerful that it made a King court their bewitching mistress for seven years, and finally put aside his loyal and honest wife of twenty long years so he could marry her.

There was, however, one notable difference.

Anne Boleyn's eyes had a sparkle the like of which had never seen, were capable of capturing your soul with just a glance, and were forever dancing a most provocative dance, soft and alluring with unspoken promises, beckoning one to come and feast in their exotic beauty. Elizabeth's eyes, though no less ethereal and otherworldly than her mother's, had a light that her mother's eyes utterly lacked and could never acquire even if she had lived to a good old age, a warm and gentle light that was beautiful in an absolutely pure way, and they only danced when alit on the people that she loved and cared for. They were eyes of a girl whose loss of a mother at an early age had forced her to mature quickly. They were eyes that saw everything. They were eyes of great kindness and compassion, bright with a wisdom beyond her years, reflecting the purity and innocence of her soul. Indeed, all it those was a look, just one look at those wonderful wide eyes, and one would know that Elizabeth Tudor was a girl who can be trusted, trusted wholeheartedly and without fear, trusted with your deepest fears and your darkest secrets.

In her white nightgown that was trimmed with exquisite lace, and a cloak of dark green around her sweetly rounded shoulders, she looked like a fairy, a dream fairy who had come to sprinkle fairy dust on one, a magical dust that will make one fall into a deep, restful sleep filled with wonderful dreams. She looked like an Angel of Slumber. She looked like one of the nymphs from the great Greek legends that Mary had loved dearly as a child.

The more Mary looked at her little sister, taking in that radiant copper-haired beauty, and those large, luminous, utterly guileless eyes, the more she could not understand how a harlot like Anne Boleyn could be the mother of such a pure and beautiful child.

God truly worked in strange and unpredictable ways.

_Well, no matter,_ she reflected. _That harlot who has caused me and my poor sainted mother untold pain and suffering has more than paid for her sins with her life, and I cannot judge her now, not when she has been summoned by a higher tribunal. My little sister, my dear, precious Elizabeth is being properly brought up, strong and healthy, taught to love and honour God, and is growing exquisitely in grace and beauty. And that's enough. Perfectly enough._

"Tell me, Beth," Mary spoke up, intending to be as honest as Elizabeth had been with her. "What do you think of Duke Philip?"

"Duke Philip, Mary?"

Mary nodded. "What do you think of him, Beth? Tell me, tell me frankly. What do you think of him?"

"I think he is gentle and kind."

"Anything else?"

"I think he is handsome and charming."

"Anything else?"

"I think he has the most radiant smile I have ever seen. It is disarming, infectious, and totally unpretentious."

"Anything else?"

Elizabeth paused for a moment, her countenance suddenly adopting a hesitant expression, as if a terrible secret was on the tip of her tongue, and she was deliberating as to whether or not she should confess it to her sister. Seeing this, Mary gently patted her hand, a kind and loving smile on her beautiful face. "Don't be afraid, Beth. Just tell me what you think. I am not going to be angry or upset or anything, I promise. Just tell me what you think."

Elizabeth took a breath and spilled the beans. "He is…one of a kind. Like our father, he has the ability to be absolutely single-minded. He knows exactly what he wants, and he will stop at nothing, _nothing_, to get it. Unlike our father, unlike other men, however, he will never ever tire of what he has gotten. He will treasure and cherish what he has gotten with all of his heart and his soul, from the very moment he got it till the day he dies. I can see it in his eyes."

The smile on Mary's lips died. That observation made by her sister was one that was both wonderful and terrible, one that simultaneously brought her great joy and great terror. Again she felt the overwhelming waves of raging passions and conflicting emotions washing over her, but still she nodded her head, the innate honesty in her forbidding her to deny the truth of Elizabeth's words. _Once a Wittelsbach man meets the woman of his dreams, he will not rest until he possesses her completely_…she inwardly shivered in fear and excitement as she recalled Philip's words to her in the orchard.

"It is Duke Philip, isn't it, Mary?" Elizabeth asked, as she studied Mary's face, and again made a window into her soul and looked into her heart, through the eyes. "He is the one who has touched your mind and your heart. He is your soul's mate, your soul's twin. Isn't he?"

Mary was silent for several moments. Then, her lush, full lips curled into a sad little smile. "Perhaps, Beth." She said thoughtfully. "Perhaps. But enough of that. Let us get some sleep. It is very late."

* * *

"Good riddance." Philip said, as Chapuys disappeared with a tight determined smile and grey eyes flashing with unmistakable anger.

"That is no way to speak about a respected Imperial Ambassador to England, Your Grace," Father Bors told him quietly, while the servants lathered him all over with rich soap. "Forgive me if I offend, Your Grace, but one lesson that is vital for a child of the court to learn would be to think before you speak."

"Thank you for your advice, Father Bors," Philip replied, his own body becoming enveloped in a thick foamy rose-smelling lather. "It is just that, that, that man brings out the worst in me. I honestly do not know where one finds the patience to be so polite with him."

Bath time was usually one of the day's high points, to Philip and his older brother, Otto Henry. They could relax, both physically and mentally, and chat freely about the day or any other topic that comes to mind, as all the filth and dirt and sweat from their faces and bodies are washed away, and they regain fresh energy and vigor. But, that night, what should have been another enjoyable bath time for them in the royal male hamman was quite ruined because that sly, self-serving, manipulative Spanish Imperial Ambassador, Eustance Chapuys, was also there, taking a bath.

From their very first meeting, the two brothers had known what kind of man Eustance Chapuys truly was, and they knew that he was absolutely no friend to them, and never would be.

Indeed, the Spanish Ambassador saw them both and their cousin, Queen Barbara, as nothing more than gold-diggers, heretics, and thorns in his side. He had not missed the heated, if silent, exchange between his Princess Mary and the Duke Philip during the ball, and that was when he knew that he had found a most powerful threat to his plans. Being a wise and experienced man with sharp analytical eyes, he recognized the situation as that of a man and a woman in love. But what alarmed him the most was that he could sense that it was not a mere infatuation, or a mere stirring of lust, that was between the two. Instead, what was between them was a _true passion, a genuine desire,_ like the kind of love shared by a Prince and his Princess in a fairytale. _And he must not let that happen. He must not let that bud of love bloom._ His and the Emperor's hopes for England and for Princess Mary would be all over if any relationship was cultivated between the two. For he knew that, despite her mother's teachings, despite her love for Spain, despite her trust in him, and despite her steadfastness in her faith and her beliefs, the Princess Mary was first and foremost a _woman_, a young woman with a great need and great desire for love, with a woman's tender heart, and the ability to think and judge for own herself. With his considerable charms, it would be easier than pie for Duke Philip to open and win her heart, fill her head with the new learning, teach her _tolerance _(an utterly blasphemous word that would never ever be in his or the Emperor's dictionary), and make her realise that, at the very end of the day, she had been ill-used by him and her cousin, that she was just a pawn of Spain in the deadly game of power and religion. And if that ever happened…he inwardly shuddered at the thought of it.

Philip, on the other hand, was deeply jealous of Mary's great affection for the Spanish Ambassador. He passionately desired to stand first and foremost in Mary's heart, and have no rival. It should be _him_ who was the object of that great affection. It should be _him_ whom she confided in her fears, her secrets, her hopes, her dreams, and her innermost desires, _not_ that icy arrogant tyrannical ugly old Spaniard who never truly cared for her, and only saw her as a pawn in his games. The knowledge that Chapuys did not reciprocate the love and the trust that Mary willingly, wholeheartedly gave him, and even abused them for his own plots while hiding behind a mask of paternal concern and tenderness, made him resent the Spaniard all the more. In fact, he had been growing to entertain thoughts of giving the man a good beating and warning him to stay away forever from his beloved Mary. Tearing the man to shreds was also a particularly appealing idea…

Any heated, violent arguments that might have erupted did not occur, however, given that Father Joseph Bors, confessor to the Princess Elizabeth Tudor, had joined them shortly afterwards. Good fortune had smiled on the two brothers, for the priest was no good friend or great admirer of the Spanish Ambassador either, and was an unusually wise and witty man. Through a calm, cool, and irrefutable use of logic, Father Bors "politely" humiliated Chapuys, in a way that left the man impossible of retorting or defending himself.

Inwardly fuming with rage, the shamed, humiliated man had stormed off…leaving the three men having the hamman all to themselves.

"It comes with old age," Father Bors replied. "I have met other Eustance Chapuyses in my life and I daresay there will be others to follow him."

"More is the pity," Philip said bitterly. "A liar, a flatterer, and a deceiver, that one. He is one man I would relish watching the executioner's axe make him a head shorter."

"Philip!" Otto snapped half-heartedly. "Watch your tongue!"

Father Bors gave a disapproving frown. "I think that would be enough." He said firmly. "Your Grace, don't let that man ruin any more of your night. Let's talk about something else."

At the moment, however, there was only one thing that Philip, now without the irritating distraction of the loathsome Chapuys, could think of, and wanted to talk about. "Tell me, Father Bors, have you ever been in love?"

A slow smile appeared on Father Bors' handsome old face. His sea-washed eyes grew soft with wistful sadness. "I was in love and married once…ages ago, it seemed. She died."

"Oh." Philip flushed in embarrassment as his older brother threw him a glare. "I am sorry, I didn't mean –"

"It is all right, Your Grace." Father Bors turned to look at him, his expression kind. "There was no harm done. I cannot say that my wife's death did not break my heart; I cannot say that I don't miss her desperately every day, even years after her death, but I know that our parting is only physical. Our souls are united; our hearts and spirits are one and the same. What God has put together, let no man separate. And I know that, one day, I will see her again, and this time, we will be together for all eternity."

The two brothers were stunned by Father Bors' quietly impassioned speech. He seemed so gentle, so serene, and so ethereal, that they had not thought that such a fire actually burned within him, and that he had such a sincere belief that twin souls can never be truly separated – a beautiful and terrible belief that they also shared. They had, apparently, found a kindred spirit in Father Bors.

For a moment there was silence as the two brothers studied Father Bors, noting that, despite the fact that the priest was middle-aged, he was still a fine specimen of a man. He was tall and lean, with his chest broad, his shoulders strong and well-set, and his muscles well-toned and beautifully-defined. His skin was like milk, and his hair, which had faded from ebony-black to silver and white, was still thick and glossy. His nose was patrician, his cheekbones sharp and chiseled; his mouth seemed too sexy and too lush for a priest, and his large, soulful blue eyes were clear and bright. It was common knowledge that, despite his status as a man of the Church, a man who had pledged his life to the service of God, he was still one of the most sought-after men of the court. Indeed, many women – even some of the married ones – were always smiling and making eyes at him, and would not hesitate to give him her favours if he asked. The fact that he had not renounced his vows of chastity, that he was still a man of faith and religion, that he politely rebuffed feminine advances at every turn for so many years, however, expressed something that rare and wonderful in a man of this time: his wife was the only woman that he will ever love, and he had no eyes for any other woman but her.

"Your wife must have been an extraordinary woman, wasn't she, Father Bors?" Otto asked quietly. The servants were now pouring golden ewer after golden ewer of hot water over them, splashing them from head to toe, to wash them clean, and scrubbing off dead and dirty skin. "To be able to hold a man such as you in her spell, in even death, to the extent that you cannot see any woman but her and only her…she must be _extraordinary_."

Father Bors nodded. "_She was extraordinary._ She was as lovely as the dawn itself, and marvellously gifted, with the voice of a nightingale and the mind of a poet. Her heart was as clear and pure as a spring, and her spirit was absolutely intoxicating."

_"Intoxicating."_ Philip mulled over the word, as the servants poured yet another ewer of hot water over him, and scrubbed the skin between his toes to rid it of filth. He had had a most intoxicating experience himself just now in the orchard, with a young Princess of incomparable beauty and charm. "Well said."

Otto rolled his eyes, a wry grin on his lips. "Don't get him started, Father Bors. We will never hear the end of the exquisite and dignified Princess Mary."

"Princess Mary?" Father Bors repeated. He looked at Philip, studied him with the careful analytical eyes of a wise and experienced man, and his lips curled into a strange, enigmatic smile as the lightning bolt of understanding struck him. "She is the one, isn't she, Your Grace? Your soul's twin? The one you have been waiting for your whole life?"

Philip nodded. "Yes. I have finally found her. And I have no intention of letting her go. _Ever!_"

"It is not going to be an easy task, getting her to open herself to your love, Your Grace." Father Bors gently warned. "Her father's Great Matter has hardened her heart, has instilled in her a fear of man's desires and wants, and a terror of love and marriage in general. The love of a man and a woman is something that she both wants and does not want – _desperately._ And she is willful and grimly determined in her views. You know this. It is not going to be an easy task."

"I know that, Father Bors." Philip replied, smiling. "But she is going to find that this Duke of Bavaria is far more willful, far more determined, and far more persistent than she can ever imagine. If she is going to be a stubborn mountain of granite, then I am going to be a clever and cunning river. A river may change course, but it always finds a way to the sea."

Otto gave a laugh of genuine amusement. _"And once a Wittelsbach man meets the woman of his dreams…"_

_"He will not rest until he possesses he__r completely."_

_Note: Due to the many positive reviews I have received, I have decided to __try to make this a full long story. But first…I would have to warn all my reviewers that my posting will not be regular, given that my muse, my inspiration, is inconsistent and hard to come by. It comes and goes as it pleases. My motto is: If I don't feel it, I can't do it. Also, I will be bringing in wholly fictional characters, and making severe alterations and changes to the Tudor characters and the Tudor England that you all know and are familiar with, which I am sure you all have already noticed by the time you finish this chapter. I am going to make this story a blend of the television series and the many Tudor novels I have read. I am truly, terribly sorry if all this upsets anybody. And thank you all so much for your utterly encouraging reviews to my first chapter. They practically made me "give birth" to this new chapter. Please continue to REVIEW and tell me what you all think, though. Thank you all so much. Until next time…_


	3. Chapter 3

_Flickering candle flames illuminated the bedchamber, coupling with the sweet, spicy scent of cinnamon to create a sensuous, romantic atmosphere. Dressed in a white silken nightgown trimmed with priceless lace, Mary, a little pale with nerves, was standing in front of the mirror, adding a few last strokes to her chestnut hair, when a pair of muscular arms encircled her slim waist from behind. She could not help but give a little sigh of pleasure, as her back came in contact with his broad muscular chest, which was as naked as a newborn baby. Their eyes met in the mirror, stormy blue against __black-brown, and the colour flushed in her cheeks and lips as she took in his gentle, heartfelt, yet darkly triumphant smile, and saw the mixture of intense desire and pure passionate love in his extraordinary eyes._

_"You're mine now, Mary, bound to me till the end of time." He purred, and pressed a kiss to her flushed cheek. Those full, soft, sensuous lips were making their way up her tender neck, and his warm skilful tongue occasionally brushed against her skin, sending the most delicious hot shivers down her body._

_"I have never felt like this before." She confessed in a whisper, as she turned her head to give him better access. "Never ever. You are the first, the very first, to make me feel like this." _

_Philip laughed a gay, musical laugh of absolute triumph. "Excellent. Really excellent. But this is not the only thing that I can do. This is not the only sensation that I can make you feel, my little lamb." He said huskily. "I can do something better than that. I can make you feel so much more. I can make you feel…everything, and not I am not only going to be the first. I am also going to be the one and only man who makes you feel like this, touches you like this, and loves you like this. The one and only man…" his tone was suddenly low and dangerous, the tone of a jealous, possessive husband who can never tolerate his wife admiring or favouring another man more than she did himself. Suddenly, he spun her around, and pressed her voluptuous body to his virile form. His firm warm hands sunk into her chestnut hair; his eyes went so dark that they were almost black, wild with needs as his lips came down to capture hers. His kiss was as incredible and glorious as ever, demanding everything she had to give, forcing her to let him in deeper. His tongue stroked her lips, and with a sexy growl, he nipped at the sweet tender flesh, causing a sharp gasp to escape from her parted lips. His tongue was thrusting deep into her mouth. Instinctively she slid her own tongue to meet his, and at once their mouths were engaged in the dance as old as time._

_For the moment, Mary was lost in the kiss, drowning beneath Philip's sexual assault, and her heart wanted to burst through her chest. He tasted of something wonderful, something indescribable, but, she was sure, uniquely him, like chilled sherbet on a hot summer night, making her want more. She could never get enough of Philip. He was her joy and her beloved. He was her favourite addiction. Her hands travelled down his sculpted chest, passed down his rippling, toned abdomen, and came around his lean narrow waist. Holy Mary, Mother of God, he is so hard, yet so smooth, as hard and smooth as a statue of polished marble…she pulled him even closer. Every part of her body ached severely to feel his touch, his ethereal, magical touch that made her feel alive and desired in a way that no one ever had._

_As if he had read her mind, he removed his hands from her mane of dark hair and went for her clothes. In the blink of an eye, Mary's nightgown and chemise were thrown to a random corner of the bedchamber, leaving her completely naked, as naked as Philip was. Taking a step back, Philip's eyes blazed black as he studied her beautiful, exposed body. "You should be imprisoned, you know. It should be illegal for any woman to be such a siren, such a temptress, such an alluring enchantress…" He remarked, licking his lips like a hungry wolf. Then he lifted her body up into his arms, carried her like a bride to the bed, and laid her down gently. _

_There was only one word that could describe the tester bed that seemed to have been awaiting them with increasing impatience: sumptuous. _

_Sumptuous in every sense of the word._

_It was of grand proportions, with fine, fluffy pillows and a soft, comfortable mattress, all of a floaty, silvery material, cunningly embroidered with gold. It had finely-curved posts of polished sandalwood and rich draperies of fine, translucent gossamer that glistened silver and blue as the breezes stirred them and the flickering candle flames toyed with them provocatively. The sheets were of softest whitest ermine, with fresh rose petals spread across it, making it seem like a magnificent royal fur robe set with flaming red rubies._

_Truly, it was a beauty._

_One might have actually said that the King and Queen of Faeries had lent their very own bed to Princess Mary and Duke Philip._

_It was perfect._

_Perfect for the consummation of a pure, tender and passionate love that would last even beyond the end of time, a love that feared nothing but separation, a love that even the Angel of Death cannot destroy – the love shared between twin souls, between soul mates._

_Her insides burning with needs that seemed to have awakened from a slumber that lasted for eternities, Mary reached for him with trembling fingers, and he quickly pulled her into his arms, his smile even more triumphant. Her breasts, full and firm and as ripe as a fruit in autumn, crushed against the solid, sturdy wall of his muscled chest, causing him to suck his breath. He came over her, slid between her plump, parted thighs, lowered his head, and licked the side of her neck. "Do you love me, Mary?"_

_"Yes." Her voice was barely above a whisper. "Yes, I do. I love you with all of my heart and my soul."_

_"I do too." He purred contentedly, like a cat that had fed a big bowl of fresh, forbidden cream, in a lower sexier tone of voice that sent another glorious wave of deliciously sensuous shivers down Mary's spine. It seemed like every nerve in her body was tingling. "I love you too, with all of my heart and my soul. That's why you need to wake up now, and to go my bedchamber, and make this real."_

_"So this is a dream after all." She whispered up at him, and an enchanting laugh that was a blend of beautiful music and tinkling bells answered, "Yes, darling, it is. But, like all dreams, it can come true…all you have to do… is go to my bedchamber… and give yourself up to me…"_

* * *

Mary's eyes popped open and for a few seconds, she felt disoriented. She glanced around the familiar surroundings; she was in her own bedchamber. Her head twisted round on the pillow to check the other side of the bed, only to be greeted by the vision of her little sister, Elizabeth, sleeping deeply and restfully.

The little Princess looked completely at peace and relaxed, with those thick dark lashes sweeping her pink cheeks, a sweet gentle smile on her rosebud mouth, her chest rising up and down with each breath. It was a serene and innocently beautiful sight, and Mary's frantically beating heart slowly calmed down and the flush of her cheeks slowly went away as she studied her little sister, taking in that shining innocence, and that absolute assurance that she had nothing to fear. The shadow of a smile of sisterly love and adoration touched her silvery face, and she pressed a light, gentle kiss to the smooth high brow that was so much like their father's.

Yes, the vision of her sister in all her copper-haired beauty and ethereal serenity had never failed to calm her down, no matter how troubled or upset a state she was in.

This current state, however, begged to differ. For the passions and the desire that Princess Mary Tudor had been so forcefully suppressing for many long, wretched, miserable years were thoroughly relishing in their sudden, unexpected newfound freedom, and they were not going to give up without a fight. Indeed, the peace and serenity which the sleeping Elizabeth unknowingly gave her older sister turned out to be only temporary: as her mind suddenly registered the fact that her body was damp and hot in places, the beating of her heart and the flushing of her cheeks returned, only that the beating was more powerful than ever, and the flush now a deeper shade of red. _All you have to do…is go to my bedchamber…and give yourself up to me… _as Mary recalled that invitation in the dream that seemed so real, her face went yet another shade redder, and she took in a deep sharp breath to calm her tingling nerves. Never before had an invitation been so alluring, so provocative, so…so…so…_seductive._

And though Mary would have denied it to the death, the fact was that she now felt…unsatisfied. She wanted neither dreams nor illusions nor fantasies. She wanted much, much more. She wanted the real thing, wanted to be in Philip's embrace and give herself up completely to its soft warm comfort, wanted to hear Philip whisper tender promises of everlasting, evergreen love in her ears, wanted to taste Philip's sweet clean kisses, wanted to feel the smoothness of his warm honey skin, and wanted to feel his broad muscular chest bearing down on her…

_No! No! No! What on earth am I thinking?_ That rational, logical part of her sprang to life and scolded severely. _Just what on earth am I thinking? This cannot have happened! This whole dream must not have happened! I have sinned. I shall have to confess and make a penance._

_Why should you have to confess? Why should you have to make a penance?_ A new, strange, indignant voice suddenly spoke up in Mary's mind. _And how have you sinned? Just because you had a dream about the man you loved? Just because you desire his touch, his voice, and his love? Just because you wish to be his wife and his lover? Just because you have never been in love before, and are frightened and unsure and overwhelmed now that you have?_

_This is not love! _The voice of logic and reason retorted. _This is but desire! This is but a carnal sin! That stuff about souls and spirits, bodies and hearts being bound as one is all nonsense! Absolute nonsense! I am a Princess of the Blood, the daughter of two of the greatest monarchs the world has ever known, and ever since I could talk and walk I have been taught all that was good for me to know, especially about sin, desire, and ambition! I know better than to succumb to a moment's infatuation!_

_True. You are a Princess of the Blood, a daughter of two great monarchs, and wise and educated beyond most of your sex, but are you not, first and foremost, a human being? A living, breathing, flesh-and-blood human being? A human being with the ability to think and judge for yourself? A human being with a heart that is always, consistently beating with emotions? A human being with a basic, compulsory need for love, and a great capacity to love? It is neither lust nor infatuation that you two feel for each other; it is something that is so much truer, so much deeper: a love that goes beyond all reason, beyond all logic, binding your souls and hearts together as one. You know that, he knows that, even God in Heaven knows it. How can something so pure and so beautiful be a sin?_

_Why you…_

As the two voices warred like two tyrants in her mind, Mary got out of bed as quietly and carefully as she could (she did not wake to wake Elizabeth up), and washed herself with cold water in her privy chamber. When she came back to bedroom, she did not go back to the bed. Instead, she sat on the floor by the fire, hugging her knees and watching the embers.

* * *

"Your Majesty," declared Charles Brandon, who had been watching his closest friend's two daughters with a connoisseur's gaze. "The Lady Mary and the Lady Elizabeth, they are both such rare, talented, and extraordinary beauties. Credits to you, Your Majesty."

"Yes, yes." Henry replied absentmindedly, distracted by the sight of his new wife, Barbara of Switzerland, who was seated next to him, her throne only a little less grand than his. She was dressed in a gown of rich midnight-green velvet, slashed to show an under-gown of snow-white silk, the neck cut square and low over her plump breasts, a long string of creamy lustrous pearls twisted twice around her swanlike neck. Her sleek, shiny copper hair was twisted up into an elegant knot at the back of her head, and crowned with a magnificent tiara of glittering diamonds and gleaming moonstones. Her huge, clear golden eyes were currently fixated on her two dancing stepdaughters, and there was a warm, loving smile on her perfect Cupid's bow mouth – the smile that a kind and devoted mother would smile when she sees her children having fun and making merry and enjoying themselves utterly. The dark colours of her hood and gown brought out the gold of her eyes and the copper in her hair, and set off her porcelain skin to perfection.

Indeed, she looked radiant, absolutely beautiful.

Henry had been having infinitely better luck with this exotic, foreign beauty, the passion they shared was not wild and animalistic, like the Boleyn witch, nor was it as mild and gentle as a lamb, like Jane.

No, she was…different.

Very different.

There was just something about her that drew her to him, as butterflies were to flowers. It was like there was a glamour to her, a power that no one could resist once it was turned upon him.

She was a serene and mysterious enchantress, who had, along with the wealth and the power of Germany, brought in a new learning to England – the learning from a country where everyone is allowed to practice whatever faith they wish, worship as they wish, where questions can be asked, mysteries can be explored, what was hidden can be sought, and truths behind truths can be uncovered, and where freedom has been promised and allowed. A new learning had turned out to be a divine blessing for the whole country: the learning of washing and of cleanliness.

Bathing had never been popular in England, the English thought it perfectly adequate to bath only occasionally, and the poor will bathe only once a year. Not to mention that they did not change their underwear from one year to the next.

However, everything changed after Barbara and Henry were married.

Through the terms of the marriage contract, which stated that Henry had to grant her three wishes after she became his wife, Queen Barbara had made the first wish shortly after they were wed: "ordering" him to pass a law that made it mandatory for every single person in England – be it rich or poor, King or peasant, master or servant – to wash everyday, before and after every meal, and to take three baths a day – when they woke up in the morning, after the hottest hour of the afternoon, and before going to sleep at night. Every single person also had to change his or her undergarments regularly as well. Also, fruits, meats and vegetables had to be washed thoroughly, before they could be cut or roasted or stewed or served. Anyone found not following this law would have to pay a fine that was a violent headache to even the richest people in the land, and would be given a brutal lashing in public. And trying to escape from this law would be an utter waste of time – the royal spy system that Queen Barbara had set up was a superb network, one that ensured that she and her husband knew everything, absolutely _everything_, every teeny weeny itsy bitsy detail about the land. Bathhouses, with free soaps, steam, tepidariums, proper clean marble floors, hot water on tap and places where one can sit and scrub themselves or be scrubbed by servants, were also built throughout the land – another firm, rock-solid step to ensure that no one had any excuses to defy this law. Members of nobility and royalty, on the other hand, had the newly-constructed hammams, which were built of agate and alabaster, inlaid with precious stones and inscribe with gold letters telling beautiful truths in poetry, that they reveal in the beauty around them while being lathered by servants with soap, splashed with hot water from head to toe, and soothed with rose oil – it was like literally bathing in luxury and beauty in their purest forms.

One would have expected uproar to arise in the country with the passing of these new laws, with the people openly rebelling and raving that the King had made yet another very bad choice of a wife, no matter how necessary the alliance between England and Germany was.

Surprisingly, they did not.

The people might grumble, the people might complain, but they knew that it would come to nothing, and hence they would do as they are told. They had learnt that Henry was a man whom one should never ever cross or disobey, even more so now that he had divorced one faultless wife of twenty long years, and beheaded another for whom he almost tore England apart. Now he fully and thoroughly knew his power, and with it, he can be the most dangerous enemy imaginable.

At the moment, Henry was a man enchanted, a man in love, having become absolutely enamored of his new foreign wife's considerable charms. His love and enchantment for her only increased all the more, when the medicine that she had specially brought along with her to England had done the thought-impossible: completely healing his old, utterly accursed leg wound – a feat that even the best, most learned physicians in his country had been unable to accomplish for years, leaving the skin there as soft and smooth as a girl's, without even the hint of a scar or a line, as if the wound had never been there in the first place. Hence, he had granted her first wish with wholehearted willingness, despite the fact that he, like the common folk, also found such laws ridiculous and unnecessary.

As time flowed by, however, it turned out that Queen Barbara was truly a wise woman, and that these laws were like gifts from the Lord Himself: their food and fruits tasted infinitely better, they felt a fresh energy and vigor that they cannot describe, but was wonderful nonetheless, and they felt as if they had developed a new glorious strength that seemed constant, impossible to be diminished. It was like there was some ethereal, otherworldly power at work, like wonderful, dreamy magic from the realm of the faeries. And the most wonderful, most magical, most miraculous thing was that the constant epidemics of plague and sweat and colds had ended completely, utterly, as if the newly-built bathhouses and hammams had granted the whole of England a most powerful protection against the demons of diseases.

Indeed, there was no report of any part of the land being struck by a common illness, or anyone falling sick. Not even one. Everyone was perfectly strong and healthy, with good colour, rosy cheeks, and bright alert eyes.

Little wonder that Queen Barbara was now beloved of all the people, who sung her praises to Heaven, and the positive favourite of King Henry the Eighth.

"They are like two lush, fragrant red roses in this court of sweet, gentle-scented white lilies. One sister dark, the other radiant. One a Goddess of silver-white winters and dark velvet nights, and the other a Fairy Princess of fresh green springs and golden mornings." Charles was saying. Henry followed his wife's gaze and saw his two daughters, dancing with each other to the music.

Mary was dressed in a gown of silver and white, the stomacher richly embroidered with diamonds and pearls, and the hem of the silvery cloth of the skirt stitched with silver thread. Her hair, dark brown with a tinge of darkest red, and streaked with a coppery gold, poured down her back in a scented waterfall, a thing of wonder and beauty. Her stormy blue eyes shone bright and clear, her soft full lips were painted a silver-pink, and a faint dash of rogue highlighted her delicate cheekbones.

Elizabeth was dressed in one of the gowns that her stepmother had given to her as a gift: Tudor-green gossamer exquisitely embroidered with white satin roses, with just a shimmer of silver glittering amidst the pearly sleeves. Her rich copper tresses, brushed to a high shine, tumbled down to her waist in a great glorious wave of reddish-gold, as if to put a once-and-for-all end to those doubts as to whether she was her father's daughter or not. Her flawless alabaster skin seemed to radiate light, and was set off to perfection by her dark gown. Her extraordinary eyes were sparkling with the pure innocent joy of a child having fun, and her smile was radiant in its serenity.

Both were dancing most beautifully – moving with a grace that was natural and not at all affectation, with their heads held high. Their dainty feet seemed to twinkle through the steps; their skirts swirled around their beautiful bodies as their rich tresses of chestnut and copper swung out. They had been wonderfully taught. Watching them dance was like watching two Angels of Spring and Winter dance. It was a pleasure to watch, a lesson in charm and grace; it was delightful. Delightful in every sense of the word.

Henry realised the truth of his friend's words.

His two girls were _beauties_.

_True, pure, and rare beauties_, each possessed of a charm that was unique and wonderful in its own right, and no one, not even the Goddess Envy Herself, can dispute that.

As he quietly observed them, their very faces seemed to blaze from among all the ladies of the court. It seemed to him that they each cast their own light, these two sisters, each one different – Mary a silver light, and Elizabeth a coppery-gold light. While Mary had an exquisite beauty of winter and night, Elizabeth was as fair and sweet and fresh as a spring morning.

Well, they were not his daughters for nothing, nor Katherine's nor Anne's too, he grudgingly conceded.

Yes, as proud and vain and arrogant as Henry was, even he cannot deny the fact that the women who mothered his daughters rightfully deserved – at the very least – half of the credit for his daughters being such exquisite specimens of their sex.

No one can, actually. Katherine of Aragon had been a beauty to behold in her youth, not to mention that she possessed a brave, tenacious spirit, a gentle kindness, and a quiet strength and grace was rare, extremely rare, even in a Princess who had been born and bred to be a great Queen. Henry, that absolute, fastidious connoisseur of women, would not have overlooked the fact that she had been his brother's widow, that there was a five-year-difference in their ages, and married her against the advice of everyone if she had not been such a remarkably fine woman. Anne Boleyn was absolutely exotic – and French, with the eyes and voice of a siren, the talents of an Angel, and a wit the like of which none had ever known; she cast a spell that was such that it caused men to fall at her feet, sing her praises, and worship her as if she were a Goddess. Henry would never have divorced his loyal, honest wife of twenty long years, and broke with Rome and the Catholic Church, had she not been such a Goddess incarnate, such an indescribable enchantress.

Yet Katherine and Anne were both gone.

All that was left of them were their daughters, Mary and Elizabeth, each of whom had the very best of her mother in her. It was becoming increasingly apparent, with each time he saw them.

It was then that he noted something else, something which, if he had not been so self-centered, so self-involved, he would have taken note of a long, long time ago: Mary, his oldest child, the daughter whom he could once carry in his arms and swing her about, was a girl no more.

She was a woman.

She was a woman coming into the midsummer of her life, coming into the peak of her beauty and her wit, with her hair thick and glossy, her eyes bright with life, her cheeks rosy with youth, and her breasts full and firm. She was a beauty who could be compared to the plum blossom, the flower that does not wait for the sun and the warmth of spring to bloom, but blooms instead in the dead of winter, even before the leaves of the trees are fully formed, bravely and triumphantly defying the lifelessness of ice and snow, and its lush, intoxicating fragrance coming from its pride in surviving Nature's brutal cold wrath.

She was dancing like a sensuous woman, with her hips swaying, her eyes heavily-lidded, and soft unspoken promises in her little smile.

She danced like a woman who let the music move her, and Henry, a man of experience, believed that women who could be summoned by music were the ones who responded to the rhythms of lust.

Yes, his oldest child was ready for love and marriage; indeed, she was over-ready for love and marriage.

Well, it should not be too difficult to find a husband for Mary. Despite her bastard status, there would always be suitors aplenty ready to forge an alliance with him, and her desirability was further enhanced by the unarguable fact that she was an astonishingly beautiful young woman, well-educated, intelligent, and simultaneously sensuous and innocent, not to mention in possession of a large personal fortune that would definitely be increased significantly by her dowry as a King's daughter.

Then again, his search for a good son-in-law might turn out to be as easy as pie after all.

For many a handsome young man was watching her intently as she swayed and glided to the music, eyeing her in a way that no father would approve. Were it not for the fact that he so rarely got to see this side of his pious, devout daughter, and was enjoying it wholeheartedly himself, he would order her to stop dancing immediately, and have their eyes gouged out and their tongues cut for daring to eye the pearl of his world in so lascivious and shameless a manner.

The Duke Philip of Bavaria, in particular, caught his eye, for he looked completely besotted with her, as though he wanted to eat her up alive. He was eyeing her more passionately, more intently, and more darkly than all the other men who was watching her. He was eyeing her as if he cannot see any other woman but her. He was eyeing her as if fantasying what she would be like without her clothes on, and imagining what it would be like to have the exquisite, virginal piece that was Princess Mary Tudor in bed.

Henry, as a man of the world, with eyes that rarely missed anything, had recognized the situation at once: a man who was completely, utterly, impossibly, hopelessly in love, and would stop at nothing, _nothing_ to possess the woman of his dreams completely.

Well…he had no objections to this, no objections at all.

Here was a relationship to be cultivated, if ever there was one. Another marriage between England and Germany would strengthen its alliance, ensuring that the united France and Spain would neither be too much of a threat nor too great of a power.

All Philip had to do was to win his oldest child's heart…and then simply ask.

And it should not be too difficult for him; he was, after all, a stunning, beautiful specimen, a man to delight the eye and make a woman's heart flutter. Henry had seen many a woman's knees wobble as if the bones in her legs had turned into jelly at the mere sight of the Duke, who always seemed to be exuding a powerful physicality, a natural sexual confidence, even among men. And despite all his peacock vanity, his satanic pride, and his firm unshakable belief that he had been and _still was_ the most handsome and golden Prince in Christendom, Henry could not help but envy and admire Philip for the beyond-handsome man that he truly was.

Indeed, he admired the warm black-brown eyes, full dark lashes, gently arched eyebrows that were thicker than the gull's wing and just as beautiful, along with the thick, curly golden-brown hair whose texture was silk itself. He admired the lush sensual lips, straight strong jaw, exquisitely-trimmed circle-beard, and perfectly aligned features. As he had taken Philip to the royal bathhouse several times for talks, Henry knew the utterly desirable beauty that was hidden beneath the Duke's stylish robes: a tall and lean body, with a broad chest, toned abdomen, strong shoulders, muscular arms, and long powerful legs, all covered by a perfect porcelain-smooth skin that was the warm golden hue of honey.

He knew, too, that Philip's smile was absolutely radiant, with a strange sort of charm that was both rare and endearing: it came slowly, and then shines brilliantly, also revealing white even teeth, finer than pearls, and a smell like cinnamon with a touch of cloves – fresh, but not overpowering. It was the kind of smile that was wide, true, and disarming, completely unpretentious.

Not to mention that he had a magic with songs and music, like Orpheus, being able to sing so beautifully and compose such unearthly music upon the lute, the virginals, and the organs, that one might have fancied him for an Angel of Music who had come to earth for a visit.

And to top it all off, he was a noble and honourable man, with a gentle kindness, a heart of pure gold, and a sincere honesty that was rare, genuinely rare, for one who had been born to privilege. When he came to England's court, one would have expected him to quickly establish a reputation as a rogue with the ladies, who were very naturally drawn to his dark good looks, his considerable charms, and his wonderful musical talents, and would have willingly given him her favours if he had asked. However, the report was that his record was clean, perfectly sparklingly clean, that he was politely rebuffing advances and offers at every turn, and behaving like a perfect, proper gentleman.

How can Mary possibly resist him?

Yes, it should not be too difficult at all, though a handsome dowry for Mary was in order.

Yes, he expected a grand and splendid wedding to take place in a short time.

And some day, he thought resolutely, he must do the same for Elizabeth. He must find a husband for his second child. Until then, she could be dangled as a carrot – a most beautiful carrot, which would, he guessed, prove in due course to be quite a handful for any man.

_She already is quite a handful for you._ A little voice in his head taunted, making him scowl. _She already is. She has actually made you feel jealous. Jealous, Henry, jealous! And how many people have managed to accomplish that?_

Henry had, apparently, overheard some "vile" gossip amongst the servants about Elizabeth's feelings towards him.

They said that she did not love him, and bore no affection for him at all.

They said that she was absolutely petrified of him, as if he was neither her birth father nor even a mortal man, but a Gorgon whose very gaze could turn one into stone.

They said that her respect and deference towards him stemmed entirely out of duty, and out of fear, and that she avoided him whenever she could, positively shunning his company. They said that she had taken back the love she used to cherish for him when he had killed her mother and declared her a bastard, and had given it instead to her own confessor, Father Joseph Bors, thereby excluding him from her heart.

They even said that, in her heart, she actually denied kinship with him, she denied him as her father; she denied him as someone whom she could freely love and trust and look up to. She no longer saw him as family, and would not have cared if he withdrew his favour from her and neglected her altogether, so long as she had her stepmother's favour, her older half-sister's love and care, her little half-brother to cherish and protect, and her confessor to turn to for paternal comfort and advice.

Usually, Henry would take anything that the servants gossiped about with a grain of salt, but he did not do so in this case. In fact, he felt an unexpected, razor-sharp dart of jealousy and indignation as he registered the words, for he was able to divine some truth in them.

Elizabeth did always seem to be uncomfortable with him, did always seem to turn away in the other direction whenever she saw him coming, and was only slightly at ease whenever someone, like Mary or Edward, was with them, ensuring that they were not alone together. In fact, now that he thought about it, Elizabeth had never laughed from her heart when she was in his company, had never looked at him directly in the eye, her shoulders were tense, and there was a hint of wariness on her demure features. When she was alone with Mary, or Edward, or both of them, or with Kat Ashley, or with Father Bors, she was open and emotional, and able to play and sing and dance and laugh with all of her heart, body, and soul. When she was alone with him, however, she became a most guarded creature, with her beautiful face like a demure mask, and always taking care not to offend him in anyway, preferring to keep quiet all the time.

Henry was surprised to find that he was actually deeply hurt by this.

True, he might not have been the _best_ of fathers, and he might have deprived her of a mother, but that did not mean that he was a terrifying monster! He had executed her mother with justification, he had been right to act as he had, entirely right. He could have refused to acknowledge her forever, and neglect her forever, pretending that she did not exist at all, leaving her to live the rest of her life in poverty and absolute disgrace, but he did not. He had made it as clear as crystal that, no matter who her mother was, and what rumours there were regarding her paternity, Elizabeth was _his daughter_, a favourite of his, and an honoured permanent member of the court. (In the first place, there could be _no_ disputing that she was _his daughter_, despite of all the doubts that had surfaced in view of what had been proven against Anne, for Henry had seen much of himself in Elizabeth, so much so that he knew beyond a trace of doubt that _she was his child_.) He permitted her a generous allowance, and played with her and showered beautiful gifts on her whenever he could. _What right he did not have to her love?_

_He was her father, and he deserved to be loved as such!_

_He wanted her to respect him, yes, wanted her to defer him, yes, but he also wanted her to love him as a daughter would her father, not fear him and shun him and turn instead to a complete stranger to look up to as a paternal figure!_

In his wild, fiery rage, Henry had wanted to dismiss Father Bors and see to it that he and Elizabeth would never see each other again. But being the clever and cunning man that he was, he had quickly calmed himself down, and wisely resisted the devastating temptation, knowing that it would come to nothing. Doing so would not make Elizabeth turn to him for the love and affection of a father; it would only make her distance herself from him all the more.

If he wanted her to love him as a father, it appeared that he was going to have to work for it.

He scowled again. How was it that he, King Henry the Eighth, Emperor in his own realm, the Supreme Head of the Church of England and Defender of the Faith, one of the greatest monarchs the world has ever known, had to _work _for the _love _of his little girl? He would surely be the laughing stock of Europe it were known.

Well, no matter. His Elizabeth represented a challenge, and he was a man who relished challenges.

Let Philip deal with Mary.

He would deal with Elizabeth.

_Note: This is as far as I can go for now. Hope you all find this satisfactory. I would like to emphasise on something that I have already mentioned last chapter: I will be bringing in wholly fictional characters, and making severe alterations and changes to the Tudor England that you all know and are familiar with. This story is a blend of the television series and the many Tudor novels I have read. Please remember to review and tell me what you all think. Thank you all so much. Until next time…_


	4. Chapter 4

"Isn't it late for you to be outside in the dark, Lady Mary?" Philip asked, licking his lips like a hungry wolf would at having spotted a plump, tender little lamb. "I'd thought you would already be in _bed_ by now," he added, placing particular emphasis on the word "bed".

"I am waiting for my sister and my brother, Your Grace; the three of us are going to have a little midnight feast here, where it is peaceful and where no one can bother us." Mary replied. Nothing but sheer force of will and years of training in self-discipline could have made her seem like her usual regal, dignified self before the man who frightened and fascinated her in the most terrible, yet most beautiful, ways. Her body, however, was starting to respond to him: butterflies fluttered in her stomach, nerves tingled madly, her heart was beating like ten war drums, and she felt simultaneously hot and cold. It was something of a miracle that her willpower accomplished the task of keeping the flush of her cheeks at bay.

It was a beautiful summer night. The stars were shining with extraordinary brilliance in a sky like black velvet; a full white-blond moon bathed the flowers in molten beams of silver and gold. A fountain shot a spray of perfume into the air, to fall back into a beautifully carved basin of polished white marble. The scent of the roses, so cloying in the day under the hot sun, was now refreshingly cool and gentle, as if it was Nature's way of compensation to her children for letting the elements of fire and heat bake the earth however they wished in the day. The sweet perfume of the fountain and blossoms coloured the cool night air with a fragrance that was soul-soothing, absolutely intoxicating. Truly, it was idyllic and beautiful, a perfect time and a perfect place to have supper and a chat where all can talk and laugh freely – at least, to Mary.

To Philip, it was the perfect time and the perfect place for…for…what was that word? … Ah, yes: a _tryst_.

"Here, the three of us can eat and talk and laugh and play however we please, with no one to tell us to mind our manners, or to scold us for being greedy, or to remind us of our ranks and of protocol. We can just be what we are: siblings. Not to mention that we can share our secrets, our fears, our hopes, and our dreams for the future with each other. And the stars speak to us sometimes."

Philip stepped up behind her a breath away from touching her. "Is that so, and what do they tell you?"

"You are a man. And men are mostly to blame for the sorrow that women suffer. They tell me to stay clear of you, Your Grace," said Mary, in the iciest, most indifferent tone she was capable of.

Philip placed his hands on her sweetly rounded shoulders and buried his nose in her hair, scenting her, whispering, "I am guilty of being a man, I admit it. But then again, I am not like most men. And as for staying clear of you, you know I can't do that." She smelled of rosewater and spices and sweat (from the dancing), of a rain-washed spring night and cream virginity. He imagined that he could lick her all over and she'd taste of sweet vanilla and golden honeycombs.

Philip turned Mary to face him and backed her up against the ivy-covered wall. He caressed his fingers from her shoulders, over her bosom and up to lightly curl around her swanlike neck. He felt her pulse beat faster and faster under his fingertips. He could smell her fear, but it was mixed with something else, a scent he knew intimately, a fire that he had been burning with from the moment he set eyes upon her.

Leaning closer, with the true, wide, disarming smile that was his trademark on his lips, Philip whispered. "You may fear me, sweet Mary. But you are also excited by me. You are fascinated by the polite and pleasant façade that I present to the world, but you are also infatuated when I am like this: crazed, passionate, and dangerous. In fact, with every time that I present this side to you, you fall more and more in love with me. You burn for me as much as I burn for you, so why, may I ask, did you refuse a certain invitation of mine? Do you not know that my bedchamber door was left unlocked the whole night?"

He pulled back a little, to watch her eyes widen in realisation of what his words meant, and then he bent down his head…

"Mary? Mary? _Mary?_"

Startled, Mary saw Elizabeth, bearing a basket of food and bottles in one hand, and holding a child by the other. The child was one of the most enchanting creatures imaginable, a little boy of between two and three, and richly dressed in a suit of white satin stitched with silver thread, with a magnificent black cloak of rich fur slipped over his shoulders, and a little chain of pure gold and darkest reddest rubies around his small tender neck. He was apple-cheeked, pink and healthy. His rich, thick hair was nothing short of breathtaking; it was the kind of hair that the moonlight glided silver and the sun made sparkle with a radiant life of its own: silver and white kissed with the barest hint of yellow. Behind magnificent dark lashes smiled a pair of wide and innocent eyes, their colour a striking shade of cerulean blue.

Yes, he was none other than Prince Edward, King Henry's darling and favourite child, the unquestioned heir to the throne and scepter of England, and the absolute apple of his two older sisters' eyes.

Like Elizabeth, he was calling out for Mary in his babyish, undeveloped voice, his blue eyes wide with wonder as he glanced around for a sight of his oldest sister, whom he loved and who loved him and cared for him as much as she did Elizabeth.

Mary's insides did a horrible somersault; bells of alarm started ringing in her mind. Elizabeth and Edward were obviously looking for her…and if they found her, there would be some serious explaining to do.

An explanation that she definitely did not want to deliver.

_Wait__, wait, wait…this cannot have happened! This whole thing must not have happened!_

Drawing back, Mary gave Philip a stinging slap, wrenched away from him, gathered her skirts, and scurried to her sister and brother.

"You can deceive others, but not yourself, and especially not me; never to me." Philip said to himself, as he wiped a bit of blood from his cheek where her nails had scratched him. He had to give her credit for the small show of violence.

Well, the unexpected intrusion of Elizabeth and Edward may have completely and utterly ruined his plans for a tryst with the woman he loved, but it did not matter, not really.

It was just a minor setback.

Yes, only a minor setback…

* * *

_The young woman, laughing and over-excited, was running in the sunlit garden, running away from her husband, but not so fast that he could not catch her. Her sister, seated in an arbour with roses in bud all around her, with the little head of their brother lying on her lap, his eyes closed and his breathing rhythmic in sleep, caught sight of the graceful, charming young woman and the dark, handsome man chasing around the broad tree trunks on the smooth turf and smiled, taking a pure, simple pleasure at seeing two of the most important people in her world so carefree and so happy: the older sister who had been a mother to her and their little brother, and the man whom she had grown to love and regard as a mixture of father and older brother. She had feared, to begin with, that it would be as if a serpent had invaded Eden, but after several weeks spent getting to know her new brother-in-law, and experiencing the positive impact he was making on all their lives, her worries had been dispelled. _

_He snatched at the hem of his wife's swinging gown and caught her up to him for a moment. "A forfeit!" he said, his face close to her flushed cheeks._

_They both knew what the forfeit would be. Like quicksilver, she slid from his grasp and dodged away, to the far side of an ornamental fountain with a broad circular bowl. Fat carp were swimming slowly in the water; Mary's excited face was reflected in the surface as she leaned forward to taunt him._

_"Can't catch me!"_

_"Of course I can."_

_Impulsively, she leaned low so that he could see her full firm breasts at the top of the square-cut black gown. She felt his eyes on her and the colour in her cheeks deepened. He watched, amused and aroused, as her neck flushed rosy pink._

_"I can catch you anytime I want to," he said, thinking of the chase of sex that ends in bed. His wife, he knew, had the sweetest, plumpest breasts, and the tenderest neck imaginable…he licked his lips like a hungry wolf as he recalled last night's lovemaking._

_"Come on then, husband." She said, in the most enticing, sensual, deep-throated undertone she was capable of._

_The reaction was immediate and visual. Philip of Bavaria jumped slightly, as if an inch of sensation made it inevitable. The wife he knew was pure, innocent, and loving. At the moment, she was also amorous and seductive – a side that he forgot occasionally, a side that she herself never knew actually existed, a dark sensuous side that their love, their marriage, had set free, like how a bird would be set free from a cage._

_Yes, though one would have laughed aloud to hear it and argue it to the death, beneath all that regal quiet dignity and utter piety, the Princess Mary was a woman of passion and freedom, with a great capacity __to love, to feel desire, capable of laughing from her heart and her soul, and capable of making a pun or turning a jest. It was just that it was a side that she revealed only to the very few whom she allowed into the deepest, innermost part of her heart. _

_With a rare knowing, seductive little half-smile, she dashed away again down an allee of yew trees, where the garden ran down to the river. And even as she ran, she charmed him: the wind blew her gown, and her unbound hair, chestnut flecked with coppery gold, streamed loose behind her. It was like Apollo, the God of the Sun and Music, pursuing Daphne, the river nymph who loved her freedom above all things, and desired never to marry. The only difference was that, in this case, the nymph was not fleeing away from the God in fear and indifference; it was in mischief and love. The Princess Elizabeth, smiling, looked up from her brother's face, angelic in sleep, and saw her beloved older sister racing between the trees, her handsome brother-in-law gaining on her, sped on by the wings of passion and desire. She looked down again at her brother's face and resumed the gentle stroking of his hair, marveling at how soft and silky it was, and how the sun made it sparkle with a life of its own, and did not see her brother-in-law catch her sister, whirl her around, put her back to the red papery bark of the yew tree, and clamp his hand over half-open mouth._

_Mary's stormy blue eyes went dark with a mixture of desire and excitement, but she did not struggle. When he realised that she would not scream, he took his hand away and bent his dark curly head._

_Mary felt the smooth sweep of his moustache against her lips, smelled the heady scent of his hair, his skin – the scent of roses bursting into full bloom, of good, fine leather, and then a tang like the sea. She closed her eyes and tipped her head to offer her lips, her neck, and her breasts to his mouth._

_Philip bared his fine white teeth in a wolfish, triumphant grin; he had his wife right where he wanted her.__ And as he had said, she really should be imprisoned for being such a siren, such a temptress, such an alluring enchantress. Her attire itself was a clever and intentional piece of seduction: the ruby crucifix at her throat and the dark black velvet of her gown demonstrated the pure whiteness of her flawless skin, the very low-cut bodice exposed her perfect breasts almost to the nipple, her petticoat was scarlet, and dainty ruby-red slippers with buckles of darkest red rubies shod her feet. The mixture of the ruby-red crucifix, the provocation with the ruby-red heels and scarlet petticoat, and her scent – which was that of a rain-washed spring night, was muddling him in a slight fever of lust, respect and desire. By God, who would have known that the utterly pious, utterly devout, utterly clean Princess Mary can actually be so sensuous and so seductive?_

_Gently, he loosened his grip on her slim waist, and his hand stole up the firmly boned stomacher to the neck of her gown, where he could slide a finger down inside her linen to touch her breasts. Her nipple was hard and aroused; when he rubbed it she gave a little shudder of pleasure that made him laugh at the predictability of female desire, a deep chuckle in the back of his throat. It had taken him only one night of passion to find all her erogenous zones…_

_Mary pressed herself against the length of his body, feeling his thigh push__ing forward between her legs in reply. _

_When he made a movement away from her, as if to release her, she wound her arms around his neck, and pulled him into her again. She felt rather than saw __her husband's smile of triumphant pleasure at her making the first move, as his mouth came down on hers again and his tongue licked, as delicate as a cat, against the side of her mouth. Her insides melting from desire at the sensation that had lost none of its gloriousness, despite her having become intimately acquainted with it, she slid her own tongue to meet his, and felt her husband's blood-boiling, soul-shattering kiss._

_Again there was that sensation – that warm, glorious sensation of fireworks exploding within the__m, the feeling of being whole and complete, as if they were two pieces of a puzzle being joined together; two ghosts coming together to give each other a corporeal form and a heart beating with passion and desire, with a kiss of the true, pure and holy love between twin souls. Again there was that strange, indescribable tingling in their bodies, as a marvellous heat flowed along with blood through their veins._

_When they finally broke apart for air, anyone could read the entranced willingness__ on Mary's face; she was lost in her desire: panting, shaking slightly, with her chestnut hair disordered, her blue eyes glazed, and her cheeks flushed. She would have fallen if her husband had not had two firm, strong arms around her waist. She studied him, and was slightly annoyed that the kiss did not seem to have affected him as much as it had with her._

_But that was what she thought._

_In__ reality, Philip was only in a slightly, very slightly, better condition. His heart was slamming inside his chest, he had a hard time catching his breath, and nothing but sheer force of will kept his knees from shaking with his desire. As usual, his tongue slipped out to lick his smiling lips, savouring the taste that lingered there; he could never get enough of it, could never get enough of his wife. _

_When his warm brown eyes came down to lock with hers, however, Mary was surprised to find that there was a hint of reproach there, and that the disarming smile was gone from his lips. _

_"What's wrong, husband?"_

_"You allow me to love you however I want in your dreams, but you deny me and our love in real life." He said flatly._

_Mary sighed. "Because I am a coward. No, worse than a coward. A liar. A hypocrite. An actress. I know myself to be all these. I have been trained to be all these, trained ever since I learned to talk and walk. And I am the daughter of a liar – two liars, to be precise. I have to be calm and serene even when I am not. I have to smile and laugh even if my heart is breaking and my eyes are brimming with tears. I have to keep my desires hidden deep, so deep that even a mind-reader cannot discern it, even if my heart is near to bursting with longing for what I want. I was brought up to be this way. I am, after all, a Princess of the Blood, and a child of a court – the very place where deceit, masks, and the power of appearances are vital for one's survival. Surely you understand this, my love. I cannot become an open, emotional woman who speaks exactly what she thinks and feels with a snap of your fingers. I simply cannot bring myself to accept love so easily, not when I saw my mother pushed from her throne by her husband of twenty long years, and shamed and humiliated and insulted, and finally died in illness and heartbreak. I am frightened, Philip, I truly am. Frightened beyond reason, beyond words, of man's desires and wants. It feels so much safer and so much easier for me to take my pleasures in the world of dreams and fantasies, than to risk having my heart and my spirit crushed and bent and broken into nothing."_

_"I know that." Philip said gently, as he pressed a kiss to her mar__ble forehead. "I know all that. But it does not have to be this way forever, Mary; you do not have to be a coward, or a liar, or a hypocrite, or an actress for the rest of your life. Dreams can come true, Mary. My love for you is different from that of your father's, extremely different. As God is my witness, my love for you is eternal and evergreen. You know that it is. I am offering you a life of freedom and passion, away from all the false masks, the shameless deceit, the malicious gossips, the empty flattery, and the untrue promises, which you and I are both weary and sick to the soul of. And we can have Elizabeth and Edward too. Isn't this what you always wanted for them as well? A life of good purpose, not idleness, pleasure-seeking, and having their heads turned by excessive flattery and blind admiration?"_

_"…"_

_"This dream can come true, Mary, it can, I promise. Just open your heart. Break out of your shell, and come away with me…" suddenly, everything was melting before Mary's eyes, including Philip's noble, handsome face. "Come away with me…"_

* * *

_What should I do?_ Mary asked herself, as she did what she had done the previous night, after being awakened from a most erotic and wonderful dream: sitting on the floor by the fire, hugging her knees and watching the flames. Her face, wet with cold water, started to dry. _What should I do? Oh, Sweet Mary, Mother of God, what should I do?_

"Mary?" The one word containing a wealth of questions came, soft and clear, from the bed.

A little startled, Mary blinked and turned her head, only to see that Elizabeth was awake and sitting up, her face a picture of wonder and concern. "Oh, Beth. I'm sorry for waking you up."

"Don't be. I wasn't asleep, actually. I couldn't. Are you all right, Mary?

Mary tried to smile at her little sister, but Elizabeth saw her lips twist down.

"No, Beth, little sister. I am not all right." _Haven't been, actually, ever since Philip of Bavaria came into my life,_ she added mentally. _Everything was perfectly normal, perfectly fine, perfectly all right before he came into my life. I just want things the way they were…_

Elizabeth rose from the bed like Aphrodite would from the foam, and sat on the floor next to Mary. She took her sister's hand in her own cool, small ones. "Why not just talk to me, Mary?" she asked, with a kind encouraging smile on her serene, beautiful face. Her voice was the softest gentlest sound that Mary had ever heard. "Just talk to me, tell me what is wrong. Tell me, what it is that troubles you so? If I am unable to give you any good advice or solutions, I can at least play the role of a good listener. And I am sure that you will feel much more comfortable this way. Father Bors told me that keeping all your troubles imprisoned deep in your heart…keeping your lips sealed and tight about them…won't help anything; it will only make it worse, and something will definitely snap or break inside you if you keep going like this. So please talk to me, Mary. Just say everything and anything you want to. I will keep quiet and listen to you."

Touched, Mary gently caressed Elizabeth's face; it was truly comforting to know that her love for her little sister was returned, and that she wanted to help her in whatever way she could, despite her being only a child. It was times like these that the bad blood between their mothers and the differences between them are forgotten. It was times like these that they were just sisters, not royals, not enemies, but sisters meant to be together forever.

"You are a good girl, Beth," she said with one of her rare smiles. "A truly good girl."

_But still a child. True, she may be precocious, she may be wise beyond her years, but she is still a child. How can a child possibly advise her on something as complicated and grown-up as matters of the heart?_

_Wait…_

"Beth," Mary started, after a moment of silence. "Have you ever thought of falling in love and getting married one day?"

Elizabeth's warm concern transformed magically into an expression of thoughtful consideration, and then she shook her head.

"Why not?"

"Because love can be dangerous. Very dangerous."

"How so?"

"Childbirth," Elizabeth replied quietly. "Childbirth can be fatal. You remember Queen Jane, Mary?"

Mary nipped her lower lip with fine white teeth; of course she remembered their stepmother, the sweet, virtuous, and innocent young woman who had played an important part in reconciling them with their difficult and formidable father, and who had literally given her all to provide their father with his long-dreamed-of son and heir: Edward. Her death was, indeed, a cruel and wanton reminder of the dangers of childbirth.

"Queen Jane's death _was_ tragic and unexpected," she finally said. "But it does not mean that all women die in childbirth, Beth."

The copper head nodded. "I know that, Mary. It is just…" she paused for a moment, and then gave a little sigh, "the idea of love and marriage is simply not appealing at all to me. Perhaps I am saying this only because I am still a child, still naïve, still ignorant, still simple-minded. But at the moment, Mary, I know for sure that the most important thing to me in life is freedom: the freedom to come and go as I please, to make my own choices, and not constantly to have to submit to the will of others. I have heard that such freedoms do not come with marriage – indeed, any close entanglements with the opposite sex. I like the idea of being admired, being wanted, being pursued, but I do not think I want ever to be caught."

Mary's smile was one of genuine amusement. "You make it sound as if you want to be a virgin forever, like Artemis, the Goddess of the Moon and Hunting.

Elizabeth gleamed, and then chuckled: the merry, infectious Tudor chuckle. "I know, Mary. I had actually thought of approaching Father and ask that he will allow me to never marry, just like how Artemis went to her father, Zeus, and asked him to grant her the gift of eternal chastity."

"I am afraid that Father will never agree to that, Beth." Mary stated the obvious, her tone now slightly serious, though the smile was still on her lips. "I believe that he will not want his little girl to be forever a wild, never-marrying young maiden. He will want his little girl to grow into a woman, a beautiful young woman, settle down with a good, honest, God-fearing man, and have a happy little family of her own. I want that for you, too. It is unnatural for Princesses like us to live like nuns for the rest of our lives. And besides…" she caressed her sister's serene, heart-shaped face again. "It will be a real waste if you really did that."

Elizabeth chuckled again. "You sound like Kat and Father Bors, Mary. Every time I say that I want to be a virgin forever, they would laugh and say that it is impossible. They say that, even if I managed to get our father, the King, to promise never to make me marry, my own face and form will forbid it absolutely."

_That may be well and true,_ Mary remarked to herself, as she studied Elizabeth closely, taking in the sparkling onyx eyes, the round rosy cheeks, the sweet gentle smile, the thick glossy copper-crimson hair, and the slim lithe figure. _Yes, no doubt about it; my little Elizabeth will grow up to be a beauty, a famously beautiful woman, an exquisite blossom who could turn a man's heart right over. The day will come where men will go to war for her with joyful willingness, and be ruthlessly determined to rid her of her wish to never marry. Her own face and form will forbid it absolutely? Indeed!_

"But then again, Mary, perhaps in the distant future, when I have grown older and wiser, and know exactly what I think, feel, and want, I might change my mind." Elizabeth continued on, now in a different tone of voice: quiet, thoughtful, and strangely serious for a six-and-a-half-year old child. "After all, as I have said earlier, I am still a child, with still so much to learn, not only about the world and others, but also about myself. Perhaps, if I ever find a man who can prove himself truly worthy of my love; a man for whom I would willingly surrender my freedom; a man who could persuade me that marriage was worth the risks…well, Father Bors told me that the love between a man and a woman is pure and holy. Each and every one of us is given a great capacity to love, to feel desire, to experience passion. What each and every one of us must find out is how God wants us to spend our love. Besides, despite having taken an unbreakable oath of chastity, Artemis actually broke it by falling in love, not only once, but twice: with the hunter, Orion, and with the shepherd, Endymion. In fact, in some versions of the myths, it is said that Artemis and Endymion became lovers and soul mates in their own special way: she retained her chastity by only making love with Endymion in his dreams. This proves that no one, not even a Goddess born with a powerful innate aversion to the opposite sex, and whose heart was supposed to remain as cold and unloving as can be for all eternity, is immune to the power of love."

Mary nodded. "Indeed. No one is." _Not even someone like me, me who had sent away all thoughts of marriage and children when Father denied me and called me his bastard. Me, who had, after accepting my own bastardy, was so ashamed that I would not want a husband, and who could not even look an honourable man in the face…_

"How about you, Mary?" Elizabeth asked. "Have you ever thought of love and marriage? Or do you have an aversion to both, like Artemis?"

In her heart, however, Elizabeth already knew the answer. She had known it from the very moment she made a window into her sister's soul and saw that Philip of Bavaria was her sister's soul mate.

Mary turned her face to the fire and watched the flames. "In a way, yes, and in a way, no, Beth," she said dreamily.

_Note: A million apologies for taking so long. My muse comes and goes as it pleases, you see. And this is as far as I can go for now. Hope you all find this satisfactory and enjoyable. Please REVIEW and tell me what you all think. Thanks! A million thanks!_


	5. Chapter 5

Mary had read stories, fairy tales of noble and honourable knights traveling the endless dark woods in search of adventure, pure and beautiful ladies gliding in fully-blooming blossom gardens, sitting by moonlit fountains, and tender promises of love that would be ballads, sung forever. She had read about how the knights, gentle and kind and loving to the weak, especially to their chosen ladies, but terrible and formidable and merciless to the cruelest and most wicked of their enemies, went out to defend the women whom they had chosen to be their brides. They had to fight brutal giants and fire-breathing dragons, and do battle with cunning sorcerers. Then they had to climb high stone walls and break through iron gates, where the poor ladies had been held prisoner.

She had read that, even if the knight had nothing to save his chosen lady from, he would still have to deal with en enemy that can be more difficult, more troublesome than all the giants, dragons, impenetrable forts, and the whole race of evil sorcerers put together – _herself._ He would have to confront her love of her chastity, her virgin state, for they represent her freedom, the precious gift of being able to come and go as they please, do what they wanted whatever they wanted, without having to submit to the will of others. As her sister, Elizabeth, had said, such wonderful privileges do not come without marriage – indeed, any close entanglements with the opposite sex. To all females, the idea of being admired, being wanted, being pursued was most appealing, but being _caught and eternally bound_ was another story altogether. She had read and heard of how the knight must prove himself worthy of his lady's love, must persuade her that marriage was worth the risks, and turn her adoration for her freedom to himself, that she would willingly surrender her golden treasure – her virginity to him, and gave herself to him completely. To accomplish this, he had to do deeds of prowess and valour for her, bring her rich gifts, writing her poems that celebrated her beauty and asked for her favour, and sing sweet songs of his eternal and evergreen love for her, as poets and musicians would do.

Like a fool, Mary used to dream of being courted like a lady in a fairytale romance.

Like a fool, she used to dream of being a lady in a tower, and a fine young knight with the fierce beauty of a warrior but the gentle soul of a poet would sing beneath her window, bring her the nicest little gifts, praise her and tease her, and persuade her to love him.

Like a fool, she used to dream of being happily married to a wonderful man who would love her till his dying day.

Mary had not been joking when she said that she had put away all thoughts of love, marriage, and motherhood after she had, with one simple signature, declared her parents' marriage to be incestuous and unlawful, and herself to be a bastard. She had known that there would be no more offers of marriage. No Prince in Europe would have married her after that. She had been brutally honest when she said that she was so ashamed that she would not have wanted a husband, and that she could not have looked an honourable man in the face. She became firmly and utterly convinced that true love had no place at a royal court; it did not exist at all, it is just a dream everyone aspired to, and the stuff of songs and stories that fuel one's hopes and longings. Yes, there was passion, but passion was not love, though everyone liked to delude themselves into thinking that it is. It always died a quick death; it was a flame that flared high, burned bright, and soon died, and all one would be left would be the cold ashes of memory, and an unendurable heartache that can never truly go away. She concluded that love, at least in terms of sexual and erotic love, would never make one truly happy forever.

Can her own family not testify to that?

Her poor sainted mother, Queen Katherine of Aragon – the most loyal, faithful, and obedient wife that a man could have ever asked for – loved her father, King Henry, truly and steadfastly, and yet she had been thrown out and discarded in the end. Her cruel, faithless father had thrown away all her mother's love and devotion away simply because her beauty had faded, and she failed to give him a son. Her mother was left to die in illness and heartbreak, longing for her father to the last; vowing that above all things her eyes desired him the most, while her father donned gaudy yellow to celebrate her demise. And she was forbidden to go to or even write to her, unable to tell her how much she loved her and missed her, unable to even see her for even one last time, to say goodbye, and to hold her hand and close her eyes.

That harlot of harlots, Anne Boleyn, beguiled and distracted her father for seven years. He tore England apart to wed and bed her, only to kill her in the end when his grand, soul-devouring passion burned out and spite flared up to take its place. He had not only cut her down when she was at the peak of her youth and beauty, but had also seen to it that history will never remember her kindly: by executing her on the grounds of incest, witchcraft and adultery, he had caused her to be forever portrayed as a scheming adulteress of depraved and unlimited ambition, an evil witch who had seduced a good King and led him into sin, and a whore so gross that she sought four lovers – amongst them her own brother – under the very nose of her husband. And as much as she hated that harlot who had brought her so much pain and suffering, Mary knew, in her heart of hearts, that Anne Boleyn was innocent of everything that she had been charged with.

Though she would never admit it, Mary knew that Anne was not a witch, that Anne was not guilty of treason, and that she was innocent of adultery with all those men. For how could God possibly give Anne a child as pure and beautiful and innocent as Elizabeth if she really was an evil sorceress, a concubine of the Devil, and a follower of perverse sexual practices?

Yes, Mary knew, though she would never breathe a word of it, that at the very end, the only crimes Anne was guilty of were seduction and adultery: using feminine wiles to seduce the King, and lead him to divorce his loyal, honest wife of twenty years, so that she could commit adultery with him under the pretense of re-marriage. And she knew that the one true reason her father had Anne killed was because she had also failed in where her mother had: she was unable to give him a son and heir for England.

Her poor stepmother, Queen Jane Seymour – God rest her soul – was the third woman to wear her father's ring, but, sometimes, Mary would wonder: did he truly love her, or only as a man loves an antidote to a deadly poison? Was she enshrined in her father's heart as the perfect wife, the paragon to which no other could compare, the only one who never disappointed him, _only because she gave him his heart's greatest desire of a son?_ If she had failed to give her father what he wanted, would her father have tired of her as he did her mother and Anne Boleyn, and put her aside – or worse, have her killed if it was the easier way to get rid of her? Well, she died before the truth could ever take off its mask and show its face.

Hence, Mary had lived her life in a state of utter confusion and seemingly irresolvable conflicts. As she bloomed more and more into womanhood, love and marriage became things that were both wanted and unwanted to her. She was deeply afraid yet strangely curious of man's wants and desires. At times, she would wonder what it was like to become a beloved wife, to have a wonderful man completely and utterly devoted to her well-being, and to be able to rest in the strong arms of a husband who will love her for as long as life lasted. Sometimes – oh, sweet Mary, Mother of God, please forgive her – she would even wonder what it was like to know the touch of a young man, the scent of sex in bed, the feel of a hard, muscular young body, the thrill of a sweet kiss from a sensuous mouth. After all, no matter how pious and chaste and devout she might be, Mary was first and foremost a girl, a growing girl with developing hormones and maturing passions. It was perfectly natural for her to wonder, to be curious about such things. Then the fates of her mother, Anne Boleyn, and Jane Seymour would illuminate the dangers of so-called "love" like a lighthouse would a dark harbour, and she would remind herself that her bastardy had permanently tied her to spinsterhood and infertility, and that she should not delude herself with fantasies and wonders that would never come to pass. But she found it difficult, so extremely difficult.

It was times like those that she would retreat into her personal safety haven – her world with Elizabeth and Edward.

Yes, she would go to her engaging little half-sister and adorable little half-brother for comfort and warmth.

Truth be known, Mary had not felt any affection towards Elizabeth in the very beginning, and she did not expect or want to. She told herself that, though Elizabeth was innocent, she was still the child of Anne Boleyn, the woman who had caused her and her mother so much harm, and she did not want to love her.

However, as she spent time with Elizabeth at Hatfield, everything changed. She found it impossible to be indifferent to the charms of the sweet, angelic baby who was completely innocent of any wrongdoing, much less the bright, pretty toddler who was so full of life, and whose laughter was like the sun's rays, capable of brightening the darkest skies; a gay musical sound that rang through the halls of the palace and chasing away all negative feelings utterly. Whoever her mother was, whatever she had done, Elizabeth was blameless, and most of all, _she was Mary's sister_. Yes, of that, Mary was perfectly sure. Despite the crimes Anne had been charged with and executed on, and the fact that spiteful tongues had transformed Elizabeth's paternity into an eternal, unsolvable question, Mary knew that Elizabeth was truly _her own flesh and blood_: she had seen their father, King Henry, in her half-sister, not only in features, but also in behaviour and in spirit – the grace that Elizabeth glided with; the dignity with which she held her head and shoulders; the impression that she could claim the very ground she walked on, and the quiet strength of heart and mind, which one could discern when he looked deep into her eyes, the feminine version of their father's remarkable mental strength.

And Mary could not keep her heart closed to her.

When she saw Elizabeth's attendants slipping away, leaving her all alone and making her cry, she felt angry with them for neglecting their duties, and protective of her sister. When Lady Bryan tried to keep her from spending time with Elizabeth, she resented the governess for it; Elizabeth was the only person at Hatfield who never treated her with scorn, never stared at her rudely, or whispered behind their hands about her, and the time that Mary was allowed to spend with her little sister was priceless to her.

After Anne died, Mary surprised herself by grieving for her sister, who was still so young, and would surely be devastated to lose her devoted mother, who always lavished affection on her, and spoiled her with rich gifts. Elizabeth had become just like her: a motherless child, a forgotten, unwanted daughter, at the mercy of a father who may or may not acknowledge her, and who held in his hands the terrible power to determine her future and her destiny.

Then, she reminded herself that, perhaps it was better this way for the little girl whom she had grown to love with all her heart.

With that harlot gone, Mary reasoned that it would only be a matter of time before her father took her back into favour and restored her to her rightful position. She would be able to see that Elizabeth was brought up properly, taught to love and honour God, and to know her place in the world. She would not have to despair about Elizabeth's purity and innocence being corrupted by her mother as she grew, would not have to mourn for Elizabeth's light and childish innocence turning into darkness and sin under her mother's unholy, wanton teaching.

She firmly resolved to be kind and loving to Elizabeth, and to give her a home with her. She would never allow her feelings towards Anne to affect the way she treated the woman's child, and she would not allow the fact that she had been stripped of her rightful titles, humbled to dust, and humiliated so long for the child's sake to colour her feelings towards the little girl, now or in the future. She would become a mother to her, and care for her upbringing, her welfare, and speak for her when necessary.

After Elizabeth had – with Mary's and Queen Jane's help, of course – been reconciled with her father, and acknowledged as his daughter, he had offered her a fairly generous allowance and a choice of royal palaces for her household. Much to Mary's pleasant surprise, Elizabeth accepted only the allowance, saying she would go and live with her older sister at Hunsdon House. Mary, genuinely touched, had almost shed tears of joy: it was truly wonderful to know that her love for her little sister was returned, and that her little sister sincerely wanted to be with her, wanted her to be a crucial part of her life. The two sisters had hence lived together as happily as fish in water. Elizabeth gave her heart and soul into her older sister's keeping and nurturing, and Mary embraced her little sister as if she were her own daughter, teaching her how to read and write, how to play and sing and dance, and about life, God, and – most importantly – _love._ They ate on the same table, and slept in the same bed. They made each other feel that they were not all alone in the world.

It was almost the same case with Edward.

When she learnt that her stepmother, Queen Jane, had borne her father a son, she was ashamed to admit that a part of her had felt like weeping. For her half-brother's birth had finally put an end to her long-cherished, albeit remote, hopes of succeeding her father. _All my life,_ she had thought, _I__ shall remain nothing but the Lady Mary, I who was a Princess, but who am now a bastard without prospects. What can I look for in the future?_

Then, she pulled herself up. One must be grateful for the consolations that God did send, she told herself severely. She had the favour of her father, which had been restored to her, a child to care for in the form of her little sister, the most toward and engaging child one could wish for, and now there was this new baby to love; she must be contented with these things that God had vouchsafed her, and not look for more.

Just like she did with Elizabeth, Mary grew to love Edward as if he was her own son.

For surely he who did not love the lively, rosy-cheeked little lamb whose laughter was like music and tingling bells must have a heart of stone. Little Edward Tudor was not only beloved for his glorious, silkier-than-silk white-gold hair, and large cerulean-blue eyes that were always wide with the wondering innocence of a little child, but also for his smile: it came slowly, and then shines, as bright as the sun, a smile so sweet that it made one want to catch him up and hug him.

He was like a little Angel of spring, a little spirit of blossoms, a rare and exotic Tudor gem, with his eyes dancing at the sight of his adoring older sisters, at the sight of his doting father, at the sight of toys and sweets and Fools.

How could Mary not love him? Him who was so beautiful and so adorable? Who was as gentle and harmless as a butterfly? Him who was so innocent, so pure, so trusting? Him whose little face always lit up at the sight of his older sisters, who always wanted her to carry him around in her arms, always wanting her and Elizabeth to play with him and tell him stories, always coaxing her and Elizabeth to give him more sweets than he was allowed to have, and who always took his afternoon nap together with Elizabeth in her lap?

Of course Mary loved him.

Of course Mary loved Edward as much as she did Elizabeth.

Of course Mary wanted with him always with her if she could, wanted to teach him his lessons and his manners and his prayers; wanted to ensure that he would grow up being guided in the right path; wanted him to grow into a young, strong, vital, and exemplary man who will be one of the best and finest Kings that England has ever known.

More than once she had approached their father, King Henry, and asked if Edward could come and live her and Elizabeth at Hunsdon; she could provide for all three of them, their combined allowance would ensure that they were free from want or care, and she would care for him as much as she did Elizabeth. But their father always refused to allow it.

Again and again Mary had pleaded with Henry, begging him to let Edward to go and live with her and Elizabeth, promising upon her immortal soul that she and Elizabeth will take all care of him, and that he would be safe and happy, but her father had always put her off with excuses, much to her mounting chagrin.

Well, she was not giving up.

She was doing this not only for her and Elizabeth's sake, but also for Edward's own good.

Yes, most definitely for her little brother's own good.

Mary was a wise woman and an experienced one. She could see that the Seymour family was high in favour now, and could easily become over mighty. They were everywhere, the Seymour brothers, handsome and conceited, and forever emphasising that their nephew was her father's only son and heir to the throne. Mary thought her father should be wary of them. If they were allowed to govern her little brother, the Prince, to dominate him because of their kinship to his mother, then the balance of this court will all be thrown to them. But then, Mary recalled the tragic truth that her father was never careful with whom he chose for his favourites. She may be young, but even she knew well enough that a ruler's favour must be measured, and that a treasure as corruptive as power must be shared. She knew how poisonous whim in a ruler is. Though their father was whimsical, completely insensible of the evil, and his mother was dead, Mary thought that she and Elizabeth could help out: they can serve as role models to their little brother, maintaining the flatterers and the courtiers at a safe distance from the little boy. (Though their current, new stepmother, Queen Barbara, had also shown a maternal interest in Edward, and would have him always with her if she could, it could not be more obvious that she favoured her stepdaughters more than she did her stepson – something that Mary was, very, very secretly, pleased about.)

Therefore, she was not going to give up.

Yes, it was no exaggeration to say that Elizabeth and Edward were the two absolute apples of Mary's eye, and that they practically made up her entire world. They made her feel alive. They gave her a reason to live, to have faith, and most of all…to hope. The sight of them playing together, laughing together, singing together, and learning their lessons under her was one that gave her a pure unselfish joy. She vowed to always watch over them, especially when they were at court, which she knew can be a dangerous hotbed of diseases of both body and mind, keep them safe from harm and guide them; they would be the children she was destined never to have. Perhaps it was God's gift to her, and in Elizabeth and Edward she would find freedom from the shadows of her past and a kind of love – an infinitely better and safer love – that she had never known before – the sacred and pure love of a mother and her children. She thought that she could always be like a beloved foster mother, their older sister whom they can always turn to for comfort and good advice, and that, in future, they would have children she could care for.

Yes, though Mary occasionally felt the pull of one of her silent somber reveries, and was sometimes haunted by the loneliness and fears of the past, Elizabeth and Edward were always able to bring her back into the world of life and light and joy. Whenever she felt sad, she had only to look upon her dearest little sister and her beloved little brother, and her sorrow would vanish, and her heart would be filled with a warmth serenity that none – not even her mother – had ever made her feel. Her life was actually quite a safe, pleasant, and peaceful one.

But it all changed when her path was crossed by a being that had caused more trouble to mortal woman than anything else, a being that was to be both hated and loved – a man: Duke Philip of Bavaria.

He had not only intruded into her personal world, but had also changed its natural order of things irrevocably: her girlish longings and childhood fantasies had resurfaced with a powerful vengeance all because of him. He made her feel things that she had never ever, ever felt before, and brought floods of long-suppressed thoughts and long-forsaken hopes of romance, of marriage and childbirth, into her mind. He made her wonder about things that should not be, like whether she had been wrong about concluding that sexual, erotic love will, at the very end, bring one nothing but heartache and loneliness. God, he even made her dream of him: passionate, longing dreams that woke her in the darkness, twisted up in the sheets, sweaty with desire.

Since their near-catastrophic meeting in the garden, the Duke had kept his distance, had no longer made any forward advances towards her. Yet, despite his playing the polite and pleasant courtier's role in the public's eye, Mary was aware, from the smoldering looks he gave her, that he still burned for her – as despite her resolve, she still did for him, the Virgin Mary help her.

Not to mention that he had practically forced her into playing the role of the lady in the fairy tales that she had read so long ago: he was courting her like a lover.

Yes, Philip was now courting Mary like a knight of old would his chosen lady.

Fate and destiny truly loved to play such awful tricks on people; just when Mary had reconciled herself to being a husbandless, childless spinster for the rest of her days, a man came along and, dissatisfied with stirring her heart and her mind, is determined to make her his, causing her to be hopelessly torn and confused between love and indifference, dream and reality, hope and fear.

He sent her little posies of flowers, sometime sprigs of holly leaves and the rose-pink berries of yew. He sent her a little gilt bracelet. He wrote her the prettiest poems, praising her stormy blue eyes, her chestnut-copper hair, and asking for her favour. When she sent her horse to ride out alone or with Elizabeth, she would find a note tucked into her stirrup leather. When she pulled back her sheets to get into bed with Elizabeth at night, she would find a sweetmeat wrapped in gilt paper. He showered her with little gifts and little notes.

Despite herself, Mary could not help but enjoy it; a mild flirtation like this was nothing new to her, not to mention that, apart from being pretty much harmless, it added a new spice to her day. She reasoned that a simple game like this was nothing to be feared, to be reckoned with, and that it would only be a matter of time before Philip tired of her and ended his "nonsense". Besides, it would only be a matter of time before he left England and returned to Bavaria, and then they would never see each other again, and that they would forget about each other completely, as if they had never ever met before (though Mary would rather die than admit it, the thought of him leaving forever and her never seeing him again felt a knife thrust, more painful any blow; even more painful than the blow she had been dealt with when she learnt of her mother's tragic death)

But it did not look like it would happen anytime soon. In fact, it did not look like it was even going to happen at all; neither King Henry nor Queen Barbara spoke about Duke Philip leaving England and returning to Bavaria. Actually, they made it clear that he was an honoured permanent member of the court, high in their favour, and was to be treated like royalty. They did nothing to rein in the fact that Philip was growing to be more and more at home in England. Mary found herself even more torn and more confused by this.

Philip was free to go where he would, ride where he liked, boat, walk, play at sports, and he grew more and more confident as the wings of time flew. Like a young man in his prime, he was filled with energy and zest for life. The ladies adored him – his colouring alone was fascinating to them: when he rode on his chestnut horse dressed in his favourite colours of yellow and bronze and gold, with his thick, curly golden-brown hair sleek and shiny in the sun, his black-brown eyes warm and bright, and rubies sparkling darkly around his neck, they called him Enchanter, or the Angel of Autumn. Philip would smile and ignore the fuss they made, and so encourage them even more. Whenever he sang and played his lute, a total absolute complete silence would rule, as if Nature itself was enchanted with such unearthly music, had never heard anything more delightful than his rich, clear, and deep singing. And with each strum of his lute, Mary would feel as if her heart were its strings. Sometimes she would even wonder if this strange, wonderful man had come from the fairy realms or the heavenly dimensions of the Angels. For surely he must be an otherworldly spirit; what mortal man could possibly be as beautiful as the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, and whose gift of music and songs was so powerful that even the very choirs of Heaven would be in awe of his talent?

Then again, if he really was an Angel, Mary was sure that he must be the most troublesome one of all, and that the Queen of Heaven Herself must view him as a headache, an unsolvable problem, a creature that you are always exasperated with, and yet can never bring yourself to hate.

Not only that, Mary's hold on her resolve was actually weakening because of her own herself. For, by and by, she could not help but take more and more notice of him. She was becoming increasingly aware of his presence, in the palace, at table, in the gardens, or at chapel. She would find herself surreptitiously sneaking a glance at him, nothing his finely boned features, the warm brown eyes, straight nose, and neatly-trimmed circle-beard. She could not get her fill of looking at him.

There were plenty of opportunities to indulge this fancy, for although Philip often rode out during the day, he was always back in the evenings, in time to eat supper with the royal family. He talked seriously and interestingly with her father about the courts of Europe and what the future held for England. He read, laughed, and prayed with her stepmother everyday for long hours. He had – much to Mary's mingled joy and dismay – become a favourite of her younger siblings. One of his favourite pastimes, apart from courting her, seemed to be spoiling them: he showered gifts on them, almost as much as he did with her. He presented Elizabeth with a beautiful black bay, and played and sang with her during her music lessons everyday. He gave Edward a handsome shirt and a collar of gold and pearls, and was a regular visitor to his nursery; the little boy always squealed in childish delight when he saw him, just like when he saw his doting sisters.

His manner towards her, though pleasant and polite, was unsettlingly seductive: he spoke to her with an indescribable warm gentleness the like of which Mary had never known, and he smiled at her in way that he had never smiled at anyone else, not at Duke Otto, the older brother whom he loved and revered as a father, and not even at Queen Barbara, the cousin whom he adored and doted on as a younger sister. It was as if he was determined to melt her cold heart and indifferent soul with all the tenderness of a man in love. Worse of all – he always, always, met her gaze with an unspoken promise. Yes, though he was acting as if those incidents in the orchard and the gardens had never happened, Mary knew to her soul that he was sick with love for her, as sick as she was for him, no matter how guarded his expression, how veiled his eyes were. An eagle-sharp eye could easily discern that he looked at her like a man in love, like a starving man looked at a sumptuous feast on the table. Mary had never known that tenderness in a man and eye-contact can be such forbidden, sinful pleasures.

As the time passed, her longing for him, instead of weakening and fading into nothingness, only grew stronger and stronger. His sheer physicality was utterly appealing to her; as were his magnificent dark beauty, his spellbinding, otherworldly music, and the soulful, passionate fire of love that he gazed at her with when no one was looking. One morning, waking early, she looked out her window and saw him making his way back to the palace from the tennis court, clad only in breeches and hose, a white towel around his bare shoulders. His hair was damp with sweat, so he must have been playing with some ferocity. One glance at his broad muscular chest, hairlessly smooth and with the abdomen rippling with pride, and Mary was lost. She had never seen anyone as pleasing to the eye, with all his limbs and features so well put together. _What a proper man he was!_

Alongside the delicious infatuation and sensuous fever, Mary felt a sense of shame and self-loathing. Oh, Mother of God, what had she become? Lusting after a man as if she was a bitch on heat? What would her sainted mother say if she could see her like this? Surely she would be disappointed in the extreme with her. Her grandmother, Queen Isabella of Spain, would definitely be turning in her grave at the thought of having such a shameless and passionate bitch for a granddaughter. She had strayed far, so far, from the path of virtue. She felt like a hypocrite. One cannot look and talk the part, be something wholly different underneath. After her mother died, Mary had taken a private, solemn oath that she would lead a pious and holy life, and control whatever ungodly emotions and desires that came upon her.

But she had broken it, and Mary could no longer summon the entirety of her iron-in-the-spine strength to boost her resolve, for the man she loved seemed to be with her everywhere she went. Even Edward, who had all the easy distractedness of a child at his tender age, was able to note that she was not acting like herself.

Yes, no matter what she did, no matter how hard she tried, Mary could not stop thinking about him.

As if fate and destiny were determined to make things as difficult as possible for Mary, as his confidence grew Philip's flirtation with Mary through gifts and notes also grew serious…

* * *

There was a tap at the door. Mary and Elizabeth exchanged a glance, and then the younger sister answered for them. "Come in!" she called.

It was one of the Duke's pages, a handsome little boy of about eight. Elizabeth smiled at him, his eyes danced at the attention. "Benjamin?" she asked politely.

"His Grace the Duke of Bavaria begs his lady love to accept this gift," the page said, and dropped to one knee before Mary, holding out a small box of fine black leather.

Mary surveyed him critically, her blue eyes as cold and hard as the sapphires at her neck. "Open it."

Benjamin stared back at her, the polite smile fading as his blue-grey eyes went wide. "Madam?"

"I said: _"Open it"_."

Timidly, Benjamin obeyed, only to give a gasp himself at the contents. Elizabeth's eyes went wide and she covered her mouth with her hand. Mary herself was staring in speechless wonder.

For inside the box were pearls; magnificent, priceless, creamy, luminous Oriental pearls, each of rare and exquisite quality, and set on a delicate chain of purest silver.

A powerful wave of longing swept through Mary as she took in its invaluable beauty, but, from somewhere, managed to find the strength…

"Now close it again and send it back."

Benjamin stared at her, bemusement written all over his features. An equally-shocked Elizabeth turned to stare at her older sister, who was gazing at the page with piercing power, her beautiful face now a practiced mask of disinterested indifference.

_"You heard me."_

Benjamin nodded solemnly, got to his feet, made a deep bow to Mary, shot a confused look at Elizabeth, and took himself out of the room with the box…

Benjamin, with a bigger, more expensive-looking gift box, knocked on Mary's and Elizabeth's bedchamber door…

Mary shook her head, and sent the gift back, but not without a look of anxiety, as she knew that what had started as a simple game had come to involve a war of high risks…

An exhausted, exasperated Benjamin knocked on the bedchamber door again, this time holding an even bigger, more expensive-looking gift box…

Again, Mary shook her head, and sent the gift back…

"I don't think this is working, Mary." Elizabeth said, as Benjamin left the room with a sulky look. "He will just keep on going. He is a man who knows his mind and his heart, and he will stop at absolutely nothing to get what he wants. The Queen, our stepmother, has told me that the Wittelsbach family has been the best jewelers of Germany for many generations. We can only imagine the amounts and kinds of jewels, diamonds, emeralds, rubies, chains, lockets, earrings, and brooches that are in their possession. He can keep this up forever. And…I mean no offense to you, Mary, but I honestly do not think that you can keep on refusing."

"I can and I _will_." Mary declared firmly, bearing an uncanny resemblance to their father when he had set his mind on doing something. "I am _not_ a child to be tempted with toys."

Elizabeth bit the inside of her lip. She did not think that anyone could call Philip's newest gift to her sister a toy: it was an exquisite pendant of gold acanthus leaves, set with a perfect oval-shaped ruby and a priceless square emerald, with an enormous pearl dangling like a creamy teardrop beneath.

As if reading her thoughts, Mary patted Elizabeth's copper head gently, the warm and tender sisterly smile again on her lips. "A lesson you must learn and always remember, Beth, is that a woman's heart is her most precious possession. When a robe is torn, one can mend it through sewing. When a house collapses, it can be rebuilt. When a thing is spoiled, it can be fixed. But when a heart is broken, it is almost impossible to piece it back together. And even if one succeeds in doing so, the ache, no matter how insignificant it has become, will still be there forever. The wounds of the heart are the most incurable and everlasting of all; there is no balm that can cure the heart's maladies. And we live in a world where most, if not all, the men are trained to be liars, flatterers and heartbreakers. Once he has gotten what he wants from a woman, he would cast her aside, like a spoiled good; they are kind and gentle in the getting, but cruel and merciless in the breaking. They do not consider themselves bound by the promises that we women are. All get what they want, and they do not like it in the end. Do you want to know what trophies they prize most and love to boast of, Beth? It is the broken hearts, the letters, and barrels of tears that were afterwards shed by the ladies whom they have seduced and later broke. Be warned, little sister. Do not sell yourself for a pretty face, for honey-sweet words and exquisite gifts. For it would be excruciatingly painful when you realise that it had been all but a lie."

"But Duke Philip is not that kind of man, Mary." Elizabeth replied, her extraordinary eyes wide with wonder and bemusement. "He is not that kind of man. In fact, his reputation is perfectly good, one would even say flawless. I would say that he is a rarity, the exception rather than the rule. He is a man of honour and principles. And he is your soul mate; you know that just as well as I do. So why not give him a chance, Sister?"

Mary was silent for several moments. When she finally spoke, it was in a strange soft uncertain tone that Elizabeth had never heard her use before, "I'm not sure…this is all too…too –"

"What is it you fear, Sister?" Elizabeth asked softly, regarding her sympathetically.

"It is _marriage_ itself," Mary confessed, hardly daring to meet her eyes. "I have never felt that which is called love, nor have I ever harboured voluptuous thoughts. Our father proposed many suitors for me, but nothing came of it and in truth, I never thought much of marrying, especially after God sent you and Edward to me. As a private individual, I would not desire it. But now…"

Impulsively, Elizabeth gathered her Mary close in a sisterly embrace.

"I know that you are lost and confused, Sister." Elizabeth said gently. "I believe I would be too, if I were in your position. But just know one thing; no matter what happens, you are not alone. Come what may, you will always have me and Edward."

Mary's heart warmed at her sister's words. "Thank you, Beth," she said, touched, returning the embrace. Yes, it was good to know that, whatever happened, she would always have her sister and her brother, both of whom had come to mean everything to Mary, both of whom could be the children that she was destined never to have.

"But…to be honest, Sister, he always asks about you."

Mary disengaged herself and stared at her sister. "What do you mean, Beth?"

"Duke Philip takes part in my music lessons everyday. And he always asks about you."

Mary raised a perfectly arched, chestnut eyebrow. "Does he?"

Elizabeth nodded. "He calls you his Princess."

Mary was so surprised for a moment that she could not speak. _"His Princess?"_

"Yes," Elizabeth said, smiling at her older sister's incomprehension. "He speaks like a man in love. After our greetings, the first question he always asks me would be, "How is my Princess?" – and he means you, Sister."

* * *

"It is beautiful, Eustace," said Mary, a smile that was a mixture of astonishment and delight on her face as her eyes feasted on the beauty and elegance of the gown, her heart actually purred a little as she caressed it, marveling at how silky and smooth it felt to the touch, and how splendid the material was. Unlike many other women born into luxury and with the means to indulge their fancies in every way imaginable, Mary did not harbour a powerful passion for exquisite gowns and lavish jewels, but she still enjoyed fine robes and rich ornaments, and this new garment that was a gift from her cousin, the Emperor, was nothing short of delightful. Surely it will excite envy and desire in every woman who beheld it. "Tell my dear cousin that I am extremely grateful."

"But of course, milady," the Spanish Ambassador said, the gentle grin on his face masking the triumph that roared his heart like a lion that had just conquered a foe. So she might be a Princess of the Blood, a young woman who had been hammered by unhappiness and loneliness into a fine maturity, and with a new understanding of true goods and genuine treasures; but, at the end of the day, she was a female as easily bought as any other. And he and his master had the means to please her, to ensure that their hold on her was not slipping.

Yes, if it was a war Duke Philip of Bavaria wanted, then it was a war he was going to get from Eustace Chapuys and Emperor Charles of Spain.

"What do you think, Beth?" Mary turned around to look at her sister, eager to share her joy with her, and missed the frown that appeared on Eustace's face when she did so.

Elizabeth nodded, smiling her gentle, pure Tudor smile. "Yes, it is a beauty to behold, Sister. I am sure that you will look perfectly lovely in it." Though she was not looking at him, the little girl could sense how Eustace's frown grew heavier at the way she addressed Mary, but not even he could object to her, King Henry's acknowledged daughter, referring to Mary as her older sister.

Not to mention that Mary had remonstrated with Eustace, asking him to treat her sister with the politeness and respect that was due to a King's daughter.

As expected, Eustace and Elizabeth did not have a good relationship, and never would.

The Spanish Ambassador saw the little Princess as a thorn in his side, a little monster who, no matter how much of an Angel of light and purity and innocence she might be now as a child, would grow up to be the serpent Lilith, the demon temptress, the consort of the Devil, just like her witch of a mother had been before her.

To him, she was a thing that should not even be, a creature whose very existence itself was a sin, a sin that must be cleansed, must be gotten rid of, or he will never know peace.

Her existence had not only caused his mistress untold pain and suffering, but also made his job and his position a million times more difficult than ever before. Were it not for Elizabeth's mother, that harlot of harlots, Anne Boleyn, King Henry would not have so wantonly broken with the Pope in Rome; Queen Katherine of Aragon, that crucial, vital mediator between England and Spain, would not have died abandoned and alone; the Princess Mary, who had been her father's true heir and successor to the throne, would never have been declared a bastard; relations between the two countries would not be so difficult and so tense now; and most of all, he would not have so many worries to ponder about, so many exhausting tapestries of conspiracy to weave with his master, so many threats to his power in his way. And while he was loath to admit his sea-deep jealousy of Mary's greater affection for Elizabeth, it was a very real factor in his determined hatred of the little girl who had done him no ill. Many were the times where he cautioned Mary against becoming too close to Elizabeth, reminding her of whom Elizabeth's mother was, and prophesying that the little girl whom she now loved so much, and who seemed so pure and so innocent will, one day, become her bitterest foe, a threat to be reckoned with, and to be feared till her dying day. There were also times where he even went as far as to complain about Elizabeth's behaviour to Mary, so determined was he to turn his mistress against the poor little motherless girl who was one of the main things preventing him from completely dominating his mistress' life.

But Mary took no notice of his ill-natured complains, and dismissed his warnings and tragic foresights as complete fabrications. Instead of lessening her affection towards Elizabeth, as Eustace eagerly desired, his grumblings and lies only made Mary think of her all the more, and he had been totally and wholly shocked to see her showing more concern for her sister than before. His tale-carrying and yard-spinning was eventually put to a stop when she rebuked him sternly for his intense dislike of her sister. She even threatened to dismiss him if he would not stop his "nonsense", as she addressed it, and compelled him to be, at the very least, civil towards Elizabeth, even if he can never feel any love or tenderness towards her. Hence, though his jealousy continued to fester like a sore when he noticed all the loving care that his mistress lavished upon the little girl, Eustace was always polite towards Elizabeth, but also make it perfectly clear that, but for Mary, relations between them would always be far less than cordial.

Elizabeth, on her part, did not like Eustace Chapuys at all. Though she was young in years, she was wise to his hatred of her, knowing that it stemmed not only from personal reasons, such as her older sister's unwavering attachment to her, but also from political matters. Father Bors had, taking a neutral point of view, analyzed the whole terrible complex story in terms that she was able to understand exactly what had happened.

Therefore, Elizabeth knew that, till his dying day, Eustace could never bring himself to trust her, and must always think the worst of her. Not that she ever wanted his fondness or his approval, of course. As an exceptionally precocious child, with razor-sharp wits and remarkably fine powers of observation, she had long ago concluded what kind of man the Spanish Ambassador truly was beneath that mask that he wore around her sister: a selfish man and a consummate actor, well-versed in tale-telling, lying and flattering, to whom even her sister, the mistress whom he proclaimed to love as if she were his own daughter, was but a pawn in the game of power. So why would she want the favour or the good opinion of _such a man_? In fact, Mary's trust and faith and affection for Eustace had always been an unsolvable mystery to Elizabeth. She constantly wondered at how a woman as pure and devout and pious as her older sister could be fooled by a devilish, demonic serpent like the Spanish Ambassador.

But then again, was not the Devil himself a master of deception and illusion?

Once, she would have said that he was actually one of the people of whom she was afraid of the most, second only to her father. She would have said that the very look of him chilled her blood, and that it was all she could do not to flinch when he addressed her with his stilted politeness, which made her feel as if a gust of bitter icy wind had slapped her in the face. But as she grew older, with her mind matured and her wits sharpened thanks to the education her sister and her tutors had given her, she grew to view him more thoughtfully. By the age of five, not only was she no longer afraid of him, but also she had set him down as a figure of amusement, and inwardly laughed to see at how, day by day, he proved her to be absolutely right; the way he held himself apart, like a pompous fool, strutting about the circles of the court with nothing better to do than look down a discourteous nose at everyone, and to attempt to poison her sister's mind against anything and everything that he disapproved of. He was not unintelligent, but painfully limited, narrow, close-minded. Anyone who was not of his faith, he would classify him or her as a heretic, a waste of space, a creature damned to hell, fit for nothing but a fiery death at the stake, and nothing would make him change his mind unless that person changed to his beliefs. She remembered overhearing him warn Mary against their new stepmother, Queen Barbara, long before she came to England. He had named her as a witch, had prophesied that the new learning she will bring to England will be nothing but sin, and that it would drive the country further into sin and chaos and disorder, and that Mary must take great care to not let herself get influenced by such "heretical" ideas. Later on, in her own quiet, demure way, Elizabeth learned that the royal hammams had become his favourite place, and that he never failed to sigh and moan in unmistakable pleasure as the servants lathered him with soap and poured hot water over him, and praised Queen Barbara to Heaven. She could not help it; she laughed at such hypocrisy.

Nevertheless, she always took care to treat Eustace with politeness and respect, but it could not be more obvious that she only did so for the sake of the sister whom she loved as a mother.

Secretly, though, so secretly that she didn't tell it even to herself, a part of her felt sorry for the poor man, knowing that he was but one of the many whose soul had been twisted beyond recognition by desire, greed, and ambition, and that he actually longed for something called satisfaction.

"Why don't you have a bath and try it on, Sister?" Elizabeth suggested. "Let us see how it becomes you."

"Very well."

After Mary had been bathed, perfumed, and dressed in the new gown and the adornments that came with it, Eustace and Elizabeth were more than pleased to see the change in her – and not a little disturbed (especially on the Ambassador's part).

For she looked every inch a Princess, a beautiful, sensuous, seductive young Princess who seemed to have come from another world to steal mortal's hearts.

The gown was of a rare silver-grey, and cunningly trimmed with pearls. It was cut low in the front, wide on the shoulders, with a high girdle of pearls, and long loose silky sleeves that offered daring flashes of arm and elbow. She wore it with a silver diadem of pearls and rubies, and her hair poured to her hips in a veil of chestnut and copper.

She smiled as they looked intently at her.

"What do you think, Beth, Eustace?" she asked.

"You look beautiful, Sister." Elizabeth said, smiling with genuine warmth. "Truly beautiful."

Eustace nodded in agreement, giving her the once-over with a glimmer of a smile. _Yes. Truly, exquisitely beautiful. Don Louize will definitely be more than pleased with her…_

* * *

"Why, my Lady Mary," Philip said, encountering her on the stairs, "you are a vision of perfection!" his eyes feasted on the partly exposed bosom, the beautifully rounded shoulders, the sweet curves of the elbow, the soft smoothness of the arms, and the pure white skin that the diaphanous silver-grey material of her gown betrayed, and her feet, whose daintiness was emphasised by her silver slippers.

"Thank you, Your Grace," she replied, basking in his naked admiration, yet willing him to pass her pass, knowing that she dared not trust herself to be alone with him for long lest she betray her inner turmoil. For the madness – _it could not be sanity to feel thus, _she told herself – was still within her, feeding on regular contact with the beloved one, feasting on the sight of him and the sound of his voice.

Philip raised his hand and gently touched her hair. His touch was like a shock to her senses, and instinctively she clutched that hand and put it away from her.

He was staring at her longingly, saying nothing – not needing to – and she knew she must break that gaze and proceed on her way. But she could not; she stayed there, rooted to the step just that little bit too long.

Eustace Chapuys, hastening down the stairs in his leather boots on some urgent errand, came upon them thus, standing staring wordlessly at each other, and his appearance abruptly broke the spell.

"Your Excellency," greeted Philip, recovering himself.

"Is everything well?" the Ambassador asked sharply.

"Yes, Eustace," whispered Mary. She curtsied and fled upstairs.

"Of course everything is well," Philip said evenly, a radiant confident smile on his handsome face.

Eustace looked long and hard at the man who was now his most dangerous enemy, and then went on his way. _There was absolutely no time to lose,_ he thought, _I must get Don Louize here as soon as possible…_

Note: A zillion apologies for taking so supremely long. Been busy with school, and my muse is getting to be quite a pain in the neck. So, so, so sorry. Please review and tell me what you all think, though. Thanks! A zillion thanks!


	6. Chapter 6

Katherine Howard slithered into the life of the royal Tudor family like the Serpent did the Garden of Eden. Though she was only a child of seventeen, she had already burst into full bloom; a lush and sultry rose that was perfectly capable of stirring a man's loins and heat up his blood with the fire of desire. If her age and her countenance suggested the purity and innocence of a child newly emerged from the nursery, however, it was utterly deceiving.

Oh yes, it was _deceiving_ in every sense of the word.

It is a universal truth that one should not judge a book by its cover, and that looks can be deceiving, but it is also difficult, so incredibly difficult, to take this lesson to heart. After all, who would not be pleased by beauty and grace and charm, all of which also serve to present the semblance of light and goodness?

Few, perhaps. Very, very few.

If King Henry the Eighth had been one of the rare lucky few with the remarkable ability to see through the semblance of good looks, glamour, charm and grace, perhaps he and his family might have been spared the humiliation, pain, and heartbreak that was heaped upon them by Katherine Howard.

Then again, men in lust cannot be counted on to be wise or reasonable, can they?

When enough years had gone by to allow one to look back at that incident as a thing of the past, Princess Elizabeth would sometimes regard a certain window of the palace with a strange, thoughtful smile, with her eyes soft with wistful sadness and sympathy. Princess Mary never looked at it or through it, usually going past it without turning her head, as if by ignoring it she could make it disappear altogether.

For that particular window turned out to be not a window at all, but a door.

A door that led to nothing but trouble, and made a King the laughing stock of Europe.

A door that granted Katherine Howard entrance to the Tudor family, allowing her to stir up chaos and unrest in this already most difficult and complicated of families.

Neither the father nor the daughters would forget the day she arrived to take up her duties as a lady-in-waiting to Barbara of Switzerland. It was yet another summer's day, and naturally the gardens and orchards were filled with life and bounteous, proudly displaying their tribute of incredible natural beauty to all who could appreciate them. King Henry and his two daughters were standing by the window where they could have the best view of what laid below them. He pointed out the velvet lushness of the emerald grass, the way they shimmered white and yellow with flowers, the blaze of the red roses of the bushes, the stately trees whose boughs were heavy with warm ripe fruits, the pebbled paths that seemed to sparkle like diamonds in the sunlight, and the fountains that played with delightful seductiveness. He pointed out the buzzards and the swallows circling in the flawlessly blue sky in great lazy loops, even higher than larks, before turning on their broad sleek wings and wheeling away. He noted that he would dearly love take them along for a stroll in the gardens so that they may all feast in the glory of nature directly, but it was not to be, for he feared the summer sun shining on their faces and burning their skin brown with its accursed heat. Their skin, he said, must stay as soft and pure as the finest cream, and their beauty must not be made ordinary by daylight. He said that they must always be shielded from the sun, always dressed in the best silks that could be had, always wearing the richest jewels; nothing but the best of the very best for the pearl and the ruby of his world.

And he did all of this with a hand on each of his daughter's shoulders.

Mary was enjoying herself truly; every part of her was relishing in the comforts provided by the feel of the warm, sensitive touch of their father's hand on her shoulder, and listening to his silky baritone of a voice, which was surprisingly soft and gentle with paternal love and tenderness. Having experienced firsthand what it was like to lose his love and his favour, she naturally looked forward to such moments where he was not a King, but merely a father, and showed love towards her and her sister, and made sure to enjoy every second of such moments as thoroughly and completely as she possibly could. Out of the corner of her eye, she looked at Elizabeth to see how her sister took to this very special moment where their usually distant and formidable father was warm and loving and intimate with them …and inwardly gave a sigh.

For Elizabeth was wearing her mask of politeness and deferential obedience on her beautiful face. The experienced young woman in Mary saw that her sister had not even the slightest hint of pleasure at their father's presence, let alone his intimacy with them. Her smile was that of the practiced, shallow, insincere smile of a child of the court, a child brought up in the learning that appearances meant survival itself, and the slightest betrayal of true emotions could mean ruin, exile…or even worse, _death._ Her eyes were not dancing with joy as they did when they alit on her and their Edward; in fact, they seemed to be as cold and lifeless as the necklace of black diamonds that their father had lovingly fastened around her little neck the instant they were brought to him – a long-overdue token, he claimed, of his love for her. Mary also saw that, far from being a gentle comfort, or warm or loving, their father's touch on her little round shoulder was heavy, impossibly heavy, at least to Elizabeth. Her very skin itself seemed to prickling, as though it could not bear to be in such an unbelievably close proximity of their father's touch.

Mary had never been blind to Elizabeth's fear of their father. She had always seen it with pain, but she could do little, if almost nothing, to rid her dearest little sister of that ungodly fear. Oh, she had tried, tried everything she could, but all her efforts had been futile. Elizabeth viewed their father as a monster, as a Gorgon whose cold forbidden beauty could take any man's breath away, but also condemned him to sleep forever in stone with just a mere glance. That fear burned within her with such a fire that it, most tragically, seemed to be everlasting, and there was nothing, nothing that anyone could do about it; a malady that no balm can cure.

"You know just as well as I do, Sister, that our father is one of the most dangerous and frightening men in the world, with all the fickle-mindedness and treachery of a Greek God. His moods and his favours are like the very weather, unpredictable, ever-changing, coming and going with the swiftness of the wind: one man can enjoy his favour and be one of the most high-ranking men in the land one moment, and have his head rotting on a spike the next. Hence, you should not, and have no cause to worry about me having neither his love nor his favour. I do not mind. Truly, I do not mind at all. In fact, I fear for those who have them. I honestly wonder how is it they are able to sleep soundly in their beds, with the shadow of the executioner's axe constantly hanging over them. I do not need such dangerous love or such fatal favours. All I need is you and Edward. You two are enough for me."

Mary had been speechless to this.

She could say nothing to that, could she? It was too shrewd an assessment.

Their father was just as what Elizabeth had described: fickle, treacherous, unpredictable in his moods and his temper, and utterly terrible in his wrath, for in his hands he held the very powers of life and death.

But it did not lessen the pain and the sense of loss that she felt on her sister's behalf any less. While it was an undeniable fact that their father was capable of great cruelty, it was equally true that he was also capable of great kindness – of that, Mary was perfectly sure, for she had had the privilege of being their father's favourite in her childhood. She had not and never would forget the days where he greeted her with his best smile and kisses all over her face, took her up in his arms and swing her about, calling her his best Princess of Wales and the pearl of his world, and lavished wonderful gifts and favours upon her.

She knew that her beloved sister had only come to know, and hence fear, the dark side of him only because he had grown distant from her after he had her mother executed, and made it clear that he loved their brother Edward more than he did the two of them. Her Elizabeth did not know that, though he was an extremely temperamental, prideful, and selfish man, there were times where he could be warm, tender, and loving, just like any good father was. She knew that he was not as much of a terrible monster as Elizabeth believed him to be, and that the physical and mental distance between them was a double-edged sword: it cut both the father and the daughter. While Elizabeth's fear of her father kept her from knowing the good and gentle side of him, their ignorant father's pushing her away prevented her from knowing what a pure and lovely child she truly was. She was a butterfly, an incomparable Tudor gem of innocence and purity, with a haunting musical voice and a divine gift for songs and instruments, and a strength and a brilliance the like of which had ever been seen, even at this tender age. Anne Boleyn could seduce a saint, but Elizabeth Tudor could melt a heart of ice with her sincere honesty and genuine gentleness, and she had the most delightful of smiles. What finer, better, more exquisite daughter could a father want?

If only he could overcome his hatred of her mother and his biased nature of favouring his son far more than his daughters, he would see so much to be proud of in Elizabeth, so much for a father to rejoice in, and could boast to the world that he had for a daughter one of the best and loveliest girls God had ever put on this earth.

It had been Elizabeth's pleas and an innate understanding that interference in matters as complicated as these might make things worse that made Mary hold her tongue, and in Charles Brandon's words, "letting the world be the world". She tried to forget what she could not overlook, and reminded herself of what she had told Elizabeth when consoling her over Queen Jane's tragic death: if one were to accept gifts and blessings from God, then he or she must also accept the trials and tribulations that He sent to test him or her, and that those whom He loves best are the ones who suffer the worst. She found comfort in the unusually strong sisterly bond that she and Elizabeth shared, and the unspoken yet mutual understanding between them: though they were often neglected and forgotten by their father as they represented ghosts of a dark past that he would give anything to forget, at least they still had each other, and always would. She saw also, with eyes torn between relief and disapproval, how Elizabeth grew to love and regard Father Bors, that handsome, gentle, saintly man with a rich soft voice and a warm sincere smile, as the father that was mentally absent to her.

Of late, however, things between them and their father had changed, as if their father had finally realised that he had been wrong in his treatment of them, and was trying to make amends, especially towards Elizabeth. Indeed, his sudden, unexpected gentle tenderness and intimacy towards them both was such that it had become one of the main topics of gossip in the court, a source of either worry or deliberation to certain individuals who were perpetually craving for more power.

Oh yes, it was as if he had underwent a miraculous transformation overnight – he had changed from a man who always had nothing much to say to or do with his daughters into a father with a surprisingly genuine concern about his daughters' welfare, and was now using his power to do all manner of good things for them.

One might even say that he now cared for them as much as he did their brother Edward, the son whom he prized above all things.

Never before had King Henry acted so much the kind and devoted father to his daughters, who suddenly found themselves given the unthinkable freedom of talking to him about almost anything and everything: if it wasn't studies, gossip, jests, or Will Somers' latest nonsense, it could be what the future held for England, the positive impact that Queen Barbara had on their lives, or even Edward's education and upbringing. Instead of straightaway turning down Mary's request about Edward going to live with her and Elizabeth, Henry had finally replied with a "I would think about it". One might have thought that his change of mind was due to exasperation, his being sick and tired of being so frequently pestered by his oldest child about the matter, but those sharp-minded ones, however, could see and discern that it actually stemmed more from a desire to please her, than his personal desire to have peace and quiet. He actually interviewed Mary and Elizabeth regarding all things pertaining to their recent activities, their health, and the welfare of Hunsdon House. He even made both of them promise upon their immortal souls that they were to come to him if either of them ever needed anything.

And…both sisters realised that he had never ever spoken to them with such…such…_fatherly gentleness._ Not to mention that he was now actually _spoiling _them with his wealth, heaping upon them wonderful presents.

He presented Mary with a rich gift of sables, a collar of diamonds with matching cuffs of diamonds and gold and a matching set of earrings, and ordered her rose oil of the finest quality from Spain. He gave Elizabeth a choker of pearls from which hung a walnut-sized diamond, a delicate gold chain set with red rubies that burned like fallen stars, ordered her her favourite perfume – essence of the lily of the valley – from France, and gave her a pair of earrings, diamonds cut in the shape of tears. He also gave her sables, and she was positively mortified to learn that they were better than those which he had given her sister, being thicker and darker, and of a glossier pelt. In addition, he gave them both a portion of the wealth that was their stepmother's dowry, a veritable fortune. He presented them with a new choir of singers and musicians, various assortments of sophisticated candies, a set of the softest whitest fluffiest furs of ermine, and had dresses spun for them of cloth-of-gold and cloth-of-silver. He even gave them each a brooch made from a large, perfect, Tudor-green emerald surrounded by clusters of diamonds, as well as a silver tiara of marvellous workmanship, cunningly set with Tudor-green emeralds and priceless diamonds that sparkled like stars, as if telling them: "You are my daughters, Tudor Princesses, Tudor Roses, Tudor Gems, and I am proud of you two."

Never had Mary and Elizabeth received such luxuries and comforts from their father, yet their responses were as different as their looks.

Mary had been taken by utter delighted surprise by their father's change of attitude towards them and, despite herself, had responded with a willing, eager warmth to his intimate tenderness, thinking that it was God's work – her prayers that her father would repent of his selfish, biased nature had been finally heard and answered. Finally, here was the golden chance for her and Elizabeth to foster stronger bonds of love, faith and understanding between them and their father; a perfect opportunity for their father and Elizabeth to get to know each other better, and she, Mary, would make the most of it – it was for their father's and Elizabeth's own good.

Quiet and thoughtful Elizabeth, however, did not take it as well as Mary did. Truth be known, she had been overwhelmed, and more than a little afraid at their father's sudden excessive attentions towards them. Being an unusually clever girl who had been taught at a very early age not to give her trust so easily, or to open her heart so freely, she wondered as to why the father who usually indirectly encouraged her and Mary to stay out of his way had changed so much. That he would realise the error of his ways, and become a kind and loving father who wanted to bond again with the daughters whom he had declared bastards and whose mothers he had so mercilessly killed was something which Elizabeth would never _ever_ believe. She knew her father to be the kind of man who showed kindness only when it ended up benefitting him as much as the recipient. Still, for Mary's sake, she suppressed her skepticism, gave thanks to their father for his favours as sincerely and graciously as she could, and always took care to treat him with the utmost politeness and respect.

_There is nothing to do but wait and hope._ She had told herself. _Wait to see what happens next, to see what I would learn of and hear, and hope that, come what may, everything would turn out fine for the three of us._

_Is a genuine, heartfelt smile really too much to ask? _Henry mentally grumbled to himself, as he glanced at his younger daughter out of the corner of his eye. His grip on her shoulder unconsciously tightened with his flaring annoyance, yet Elizabeth did not flinch. Precious little would, actually. She was a Tudor to her very bones, with a fierce courage and a strength that can only be surpassed by the power of her heart. It would take more than a tightening – and hence painful – grip on her to make her flinch. But any pride that Henry might have felt upon sensing this proof of his Bessy's having inherited the famous Tudor strength and Tudor courage was lost in the knowledge of her continued, persistent distantness towards him.

_I have given her jewels, gold, honours, everything that a Princess could possibly want, and more…yet she continues to turn me away and seek the comfort that I should be giving her in her dastardly confessor's arms? She denies me even the slightest hint of a smile from the heart, yet lavishes her truest smiles, her hugs – and even her kisses – on that two-faced bastard who dares to wear the robes of the clergy and calls himself a holy man when he has so wickedly stolen a daughter's love for her father? If she continues to keep this up…well…prepare yourself for a journey of no-return, Joseph Bors. There can only be one father, whom my Bessy can look up to and love and respect, and that's me, her father – her one true father, the father who had given her life, and who had so generously given her every luxury and comfort imaginable…_

It was then that he spotted something that made him forget his annoyance with Elizabeth, and lit a raging fire in his loins and made his mouth water.

It was a girl.

A girl young enough to be his daughter, no doubt, but her buxom figure revealed that she was of age, and ripe and, he expected, ready. She was dressed in a gown of angelic white satin, with the low square bodice modestly filled in with a partlet of white lawn, fashioned with a collar that opened in the shape of a V, pointing down to her pert, ample breasts, trussed high by her stays. As she stepped daintily from the Duke of Suffolk's barge, she raised her skirts and petticoats much too high, giving him a marvellous glimpse of shapely legs sheathed in white stockings, held up by white ribbon garters tied in pretty bows just below her knees and, even more startlingly arousing – a flash of the creamy skin of a pair of exquisitely plump thighs. Henry, in his sudden lust, even fancied that he could see the auburn curls between. As she set her satin-shod feet down upon firm ground, the chin strap that held her white satin French hood in place snapped. As she reached up to grab hold of it before it tumbled into the River Thames, her hand knocked awry the thick, elegant bun of auburn hair pinned loosely at the nape of her neck. She pouted her lips – as red and ripe as cherries – in a little moue of annoyance and shook her head vigorously, like a wet dog, and sent the pins flying everywhere, so that a mass of unruly auburn curls tumbled all the way down to her slender waist. Its shade of red was not as dark or lush or striking as his hair and beard, of course, yet it was beautiful nonetheless, and its flecks of gold were sleeker and shinier than Elizabeth's own glorious copper tresses. Her eyes were such that he almost gasped aloud – hazel, but not like any he had ever seen. From the retina he saw spikes of blue and hints of lavender give way to green, before changing to gold and amber. When he leaned forward to get a better look, though, he saw that the green was more visible, the other colours not so much, and it was wonderfully lovely.

And he was completely, utterly enraptured.

There was just something about her that made the day seem brighter and hotter…a strange wildness about her that was deliciously enticing, as if she was some beautiful spirit of nature, a nymph follower of Artemis the Huntress. For a moment he forgot about his quest to build stronger bonds of love and faith with his daughters, he forgot that he was already married to a rare and exceptional beauty who was nothing but kind, devoted and loving to him and his three children, and to whom he was forever in debt, he even forgot that the King of England.

_I would give anything just to have a night with her,_ he said to himself. _Anything._

Down below, Edward Seymour, the Earl of Hertford and uncle to Prince Edward Tudor, was frowning heavily, and was about to step forward and chastise the seventeen-year-old girl for her unladylike behaviour when the sunlight, flashing on the emeralds and diamonds that encrusted the King's sleek puffed sleeves as he leaned on the windowsill, caught his eye. At the King's look of spellbound longing, the scolding words instantly died on his lips.

The wheels of Edward's mind began to turn, calculating and assessing, weighing the risks and odds. Katherine of Aragon, the epitome of a loyal, honest and obedient wife, had been cast aside like a toy that no longer held interest after twenty long years of glory. Anne Boleyn, a classic enchantress that was thought to exist only in fairy tales, had soared to the highest heights entirely by the virtue of her beauty and her allure, her charm and her wit, before she came crashing down like Icarus burned by the sun. His sister, Jane – oh, she may she rest in peace – came to wear Henry's ring partly through her modesty and virtue, and partly through the mixture of good luck and their family's careful scheming, only to be taken away by the Angel of Death after granting Henry his heart's greatest desire. Barbara of Switzerland, Henry's new Queen, was now holding him nice and tight under her spell: she was proving to be a strange and wonderful woman with a touch of each of his three previous wives, while at the same time, she had something special and unique in its own right. But, for all the King's attentions, she was still _not pregnant. _Hence, one could interpret this as a sign that her position in the King's heart was not fully solid and secure _yet. _So what could little Katherine Howard do? That was the question.

Her father's look of lust and desire had also not gone unnoticed by Elizabeth, the Tudor who noticed everything. If one were to expect her to sigh, shrug her shoulders, turn her head away and ignore the matter altogether – it was, after all, not _her _business anyway about _who _her father desired – however, he was to be surprised.

For as she studied the beautiful young girl whose unladylike behaviour would have definitely earned her a good tongue-lashing from her sister Mary had _she_ been appointed _her _lady-in-waiting, a strange negative emotion seemed to rise from her toes, travel to her stomach, and fill her chest. Not even the beauty of the day or the comforting fact that Mary had not noticed that their father was about to become a seducer and adulterer again could lift her spirits.

But it did not take her long to identify what the emotion that was swiftly overpowering every part of her was: foreboding.

* * *

Princess Elizabeth awoke to a grey gloomy morning with foreboding still bubbling at the pit of her stomach, like some indigestible witch's stew. She had been feeling it ever since the previous day, starting from the very moment when she saw that her father was madly infatuated with her stepmother's newest, youngest – and undeniably prettiest – lady-in-waiting at first sight.

For some strange, unexplainable reason, she could not help but feel that this new object of her father's insatiable lust would cause but pain and suffering. She could not help but feel that there was more to that fresh, spring-like young beauty than meets the eye, and that her seductive sensuality hid something…_sinister._

Something dark.

Dark, dirty, and definitely bad.

At first, Elizabeth had told herself that it was probably a manifestation of an over-productive imagination, that she was overreacting, and had tried to shake the feeling away.

But she could not.

In fact, the more she tried, the stronger the foreboding became, the more heavily it settled on her, as if fate and destiny were not toying with her, but actually trying to tell her something important through the dark, ominous sensation. There was just something about the young woman – what was her name again? Ah, yes, Katherine Howard – with her hair that flared with golden fire in the sun, her seductively voluptuous figure, and her vibrant, sensual eyes, that gave Elizabeth the creeps, and the little Princess hence resolved to keep a watchful eye on her.

Yet the sense of foreboding did not go away with this conclusion, though it at least stopped growing within her like the festering of a cancerous tumour. A restless night, a hot bath and a sumptuous breakfast did not help her looks; she was as pale as a corpse, so much so that Mary was alarmed, and would have called for the King's physicians, had not her little sister assured her that she would be fine after she had taken a walk in the gardens, and breathed in some fresh air and sweet flower-scents. She did, however, upon Mary's adamant insistence, take a little of the medicine that their stepmother had brought from Germany and had given to them as a gift, though she knew that it would do her little, if no good at all: how could physical medicine possibly cure mental illnesses?

But at least it seemed to bring some of the colour back into her cheeks and lips, a little light back into her eyes.

She dressed herself in her favourite gown which, most coincidentally, seemed to suit her mood, which was as grave and gloomy and sober as the day itself. It was in two of the most extreme colours: black and white, lustrous white silk for the bodice and under-gown, soft black velvet for the overskirt and the sleeves – slashed so that the white of her chemise showed through, and black velvet slippers shod her dainty feet. Her copper hair was worn loose, without a hood, its glorious reddish-gold colour contrasting sharply with the black material of her gown. She wore no jewellery at all; she was not in any mood for adornments. But she did apply her favourite lily-of-the-valley perfume.

When she was done, Mary thought that her dearest little sister looked the epitome of a godly Christian child – and unspeakably beautiful. Other women and girls could wear black and white like Elizabeth, but none of them could dominate the colours like she did, nor could any of them ever wear them to such fabulous effect. Mary even fancied that the most richly dressed and adorned little Princess would look tawdry beside the blaze of her Elizabeth's hair, the velvety whiteness of her skin and the extreme modesty of her black-and-white dress, and the whole court would definitely be stunned into speechless silence by the vision of beauty she became when dressed so modestly in such extreme colours. Their father would surely be proud and pleased to see her looking like this, so pure, so beautiful, and so angelic, with an enchantingly sweet scent that reflected the light and innocence of her soul.

She made a mental note to order more dresses made in black and white for Elizabeth, dresses which, modest and severe though they must be, have also to be elegant and fit for a Princess.

But Elizabeth, ignorant of her older sister's pride and approval, was thinking, as she looked into the big silvered mirror, that she looked drawn, overly-devout, and dull. Surely the court would laugh at her when they saw her like this, and her father would definitely scold her for dressing up in a fashion that was more suited for occasions like mourning, when every teeny weeny itsy bitsy thing in the land was all gay and merry.

_Then again, it does not matter. If I do not feel gay and merry at all, then I am not going to pretend or say that I am gay and merry. It does not matter, really. No one will take much notice of me, anyway. I am just only a bastard child, an unwanted Princess, perhaps even a nobody, just like my poor dear Sister. If the King really does flare up at my sense of fashion, then I would just pack my bags and go back to Hunsdon first. Sister will join me soon enough anyway, and she would not only be bringing our dear, sweet, innocent little Edward with her, but also a brother-in-law whom I can love and trust, and perhaps even look up to as a father…_

"You should put it this on as well, Beth," Mary held up a wide-brimmed, black velvet hat with a wonderful, curling snow-white feather tapered to the brim by a great black diamond brooch.

Elizabeth shook her copper-crimson head. "No, thank you, Sister. I have no need of it. There is no sun, and hence no shine or glare that I have to shield my face from. I will see you later."

* * *

Quietly, Elizabeth descended the marble steps into the gardens. Unbeknownst to her, she was being watched by a pair of eyes hid behind the tall, dense green shrubberies.

She idly roamed the pebbled path, lost in thought, crushing the fallen petals of red, pink, yellow, and white beneath her velvet slippers, while all around her roses in full, heady bloom swayed gently upon their thorny stems.

Then there he was – her father, King Henry the Eighth, kind but terrible in all his majesty. He stood there, a giant of a man, hands on hips, his blue eyes twinkling and his rosebud of a mouth smiling in instinctive pleasure at the sight of the daughter whose love he was grimly determined to win from that accursed, thievish confessor of hers, and his legs parted as if he meant to straddle the world and declare himself its master.

The crunch of his boots upon the gravel startled her, and Elizabeth spun around and sank quickly into an immaculate curtsey. Anyone less graceful and nimble would have lost her balance and fallen flat.

"Up! Up!" He gestured brusquely, fixing the smile that he only smiled when he was with Edward on his full, sensual lips. "No ceremony, my sweetest Bessy. You see, I come to you not as King of England…" at this, her perfectly plucked eyebrows arched skeptically. "Ardent Desire has come to call upon Perseverance. You, my daughter, persevere in keeping yourself out of one's eye, while I, your father, ardently desire your light to brighten my court and my life."

"Surely there are other lights in court that are a million times brighter, more delightful, and more wonderful than that of mine, Sir," she answered, her tone perfectly polite, but no more than that. "I am but a young, ignorant, inexperienced child, and what little shine I have to offer is utterly insignificant compared to their radiance."

"Uh, uh, uh," he wagged his finger at her, his eyes and his smile now as radiant as the sun itself. "That is for me to decide, Bessy, not you. Your sister and your tutors have told me that you are a most diligent young lady, with a particular love and gift of music and languages. They tell me that, without fail, you would spend several hours practicing them everyday. They tell me that, though you may be young in years, you are an accomplished and skilful musician (thanks to me, of course, where else would you have gotten your talents from?), and that you often astonish them with your wonderful talent and memory. Hence, it is my wish that you perform on the virginals tonight at the feast."

"It is most kind of you to flatter me like this and to offer me a chance to display my skills, Sir," said Elizabeth, the very picture of humility and modesty. "But I am afraid that I must decline your generous offer. I am not well, and hence unable to play or sing or dance before your sacred person, Sir. I beg you, Sir, to look to others to perform for your entertainment instead, for truly I am in no state to do so, and it would surely be a great disgrace to the family if I were to break down during my performance."

_Not well? In absolutely no state to perform?_ Henry inwardly frowned in extreme displeasure as he studied his daughter carefully. _Well…Bessy does look a little pale, a little frail perhaps, but surely there was nothing that a good lunch and a good afternoon nap would not fix. I will have Mary and the servants see to that. Come evening, she definitely would be as good as new, and would have no excuse not to perform…wait, wait, wait…black and white? Black and white? Of all the colours that I have given her and she could have worn, she wears THE COLOURS OF DEATH? And…what this? No jewels? No tiara? No necklace? No bracelet? NOT EVEN A RING?_

_WHAT ON EARTH IS SHE THINKING? FANCY DRESSING UP LIKE SOME NUN IN ORDERS WHEN, AS A PRINCESS OF ENGLAND, AS A PRINCESS OF THE BLOOD, AS MY DAUGHTER, SHE OUGHT TO ROBE HERSELF IN THE RICHEST OF GARMENTS, AND ADORN HERSELF WITH THE MOST FABULOUS JEWELS? OH…IT MUST BE THE WORK OF THAT WHORESON JOSEPH BORS, NO DOUBT!_

Henry mentally seethed. A daughter of his, dressing up herself as if she were preparing for a life behind walls? Dismissing the jewels and ornaments and robes that he had so specially given her – and they the best, the very _very_ best in all the land – as if they were shoddy goods?

_OH…NO DAUGHTER OF MINE IS RAISED TO BE DEVOUT, PLAIN, DULL NUN, DOUBTING MY LOVE FOR ME, SEEKING COMFORT THAT IS RIGHTFULLY MY JOB TO GIVE HER ELSEWHERE! NO DAUGHTER IS RAISED TO FEAR ME AND LOATHE ME AS IF I WERE SOME TERROR OF TERRORS, AND CONCEAL HER BEAUTY AND TALENT IN SILENCE AND INDIFFERENCE!_

He made a mental note to have the "pathetic, plain, nun-like" dress confiscated and burnt, along with all of the other sober, nun-like gowns (if any found) in his daughter's wardrobe.

_A new wardrobe for my Bessy is MOST DEFINITELY IN ORDER. I see that I shall have to order a new one for her, and definitely NO BLACK-AND-WHITE! I will also give orders that no dressmaker is ever to make a dress in sober colours for Bessy unless I give him special permission to do so, and that, from now on, my Bessy is utterly banned from wearing such colours, unless they are perfectly suited for the occasion, such a funeral and that sort of thing. I cannot depend on Mary. She is too much of an ingénue, an innocent to see what that accursed priest from Hell is doing to Bessy. I shall have to do everything myself…_

If Henry were to be honest with himself, he would admit that, in the severe yet elegant black-and-white gown, with its high unadorned collar, fit bodice, and full skirts, and with her reddish-gold hair loose and rippling down to her waist, Elizabeth had never looked more beautiful, more innocent. Indeed, arrayed in the colours which, despite their extremity, represented the virtues of modesty and purity, his daughter looked as pure and sweet and winsome as any child like her could be, and her scent, lily of the valley, made her seem all the more ethereal. But the part of him that burned with jealous rage towards his daughter's confessor blinded him so he could not bring himself to appreciate the beauty, let alone admit it.

Still, despite his dark, ragingly angry thoughts, Henry kept his face pleasant and smiling, and his tone of voice warm and loving, for he knew that loosing his temper with the daughter who was already so afraid of him was absolutely out of the question.

"We would talk of this later. Come, Bessy, take my hand, let us – _father and daughter _– feast in the beauty of nature together."

"As you wish, Sir."

"Not _"Sir", _Bessy," – Henry lightly brushed a soft, silky tendril of copper hair away from the little heart-shaped face – "It's _"Father"_."

"Then if you, _Father, _would follow me along this path, I will be glad to show you the gardens," Elizabeth said, surprise evident in both her voice and her face, yet she turned away from his touch.

"You, the ruby of my world, can take me anywhere you like," he declared as they proceeded along the petal-strewn path.

"My, my, here is a shy one," his long slender fingers caressed a crimson bud that promised to be a lush fragrant beauty when bloomed, but his eyes were fixed on his daughter, who recognized the metaphor.

"I do not think that it is necessarily a bad thing," Elizabeth said, her tone suddenly earnest and gentle, her eyes soft with wistful sadness. "In fact, it might be better this way."

"You are not like your sister or your brother," he observed.

"No, Father, I am not."

"I would have thought that all blossoms take most pride in their beauty and fragrance, and see to it that they display themselves at their best in the seasons of life and vigor, each and everyone of them desperately hoping to be plucked by the gardener, and become part of an exquisite bouquet that would be admired and marveled by all. Why is it then that one bud that shows such definite and awesome promise to be a rare, wonderful blossom, the like of which has never been seen, would so adamantly refuse to bloom, and does everything in its power to escape attention?"

"Not all blossoms love to be an object of admiration and marvel, Father, only the majority of them does. And, as you have said, I am neither my sister nor my brother. I would never sell myself so cheaply."

"Cheaply?" he repeated incredulously. "Many would account it a great honour to adorn the finest court in Europe with grace and beauty and talent!"

"As you, Father, have rightfully observed, I am a rarity, the exception rather than the rule. I will only perform for those whom I have let into my heart, and who truly appreciates me. Never will I degrade myself and let my talents become common for the brief, fleeting favour that can be acquired by being an entertainer for a court full of superficial, false-hearted, yard-spinning strangers. And if that means those whom I willingly and wholeheartedly perform for will forever be a small circle, then so be it."

"By God, you are _proud,_ Bessy."

"Too proud to be forced into bloom, and then plucked, and later discarded when my lush beauty has faded and my perfume has died. A rose does not survive long once it has bloomed. In fact, I would say that it has spoken its own death sentence from the very moment that it blooms."

Henry stared at her, his pulses throbbing. There was a sharp snap as his fingers tightened around the stem of the crimson bud.

"Roses are meant to bloom and to be plucked, not to sleep forever in bud, or to wither upon their stems, their petals dispersed by the winds and rains, and trodden underfoot!"

"Who are we to argue with the Gods of Fate and Destiny? Their ways are ever so strange, so unpredictable, and so unexplainable. Yet all of us, regardless of sex, religion, skin colour, position, or stature, are irrevocably bound by them, just like how Death embraces King and peasant as equals once the hour is upon us. No man or woman can deny his or her destiny when it is written in the stars. But until they decree otherwise, I daresay that each and every living creature in this world, even something as frail and delicate and short-lived as these roses, are allowed the freedom to make their own choices, their own decisions."

"It is _not_ for roses to decide _when_ they will _bloom_ and _be plucked!_ I look forward to seeing your performance tonight at court, Bessy."

"Thank you, Father, for your kind invitation, but…"

"It is _not _an invitation."

"It is a command?"

"We understand each other perfectly. Good day, Bessy, I shall see you tonight at the feast." He extended the bud to her and, with a curt nod, left her.

For a moment there was absolute silence as Elizabeth stared long and hard at the bud, as if trying to see something beyond it, trying to understand something about it. Then, with her pretty rosebud mouth curling into a smile as hauntingly sad as her eyes, she kissed it gently.

"I really envy you and your siblings sometimes, you know," she whispered to it, as if hoping that it could understand her distress and comfort her. "From the moment you bud and bloom until the day you wilt and die, all you have to do is just to look pretty and smell good. The zephyrs caress you, the dew moistens you, the sun brings you beauty, the bees and the butterflies love you, and the thorns defend you. All you have to do is be an object of marvel and admiration to everyone. But I, on the other hand, have to contend with that…that…that…_man_ who denied you the chance of blooming, day after day. I have to live in fear of him, his tongue and his temper, and in the knowledge that I will never know what he will do to me next, and that a mere frown from him could mean the end of my very life. Sometimes, I even think that the greatest trial God has ever given me was having him for a father."

Letting the bud fall soundlessly to the ground, Elizabeth turned with an elegant swish of black velvet skirts to lose herself in the maze.

The lips beneath the pair of eyes that had been secretly watching her curled into a dark, blood-chilling smile. "Foolish girl. Poor, silly, foolish little girl…"

* * *

That night, in an unbelievable show of defiance, Elizabeth kept to her chambers, ignoring her father's repeated summons to come down to dine, and to play and sing and dance for the eagerly awaiting court.

"The King requests your presence," the first message said. Another followed shortly afterwards, saying, "Dress yourself in your finest robes and bring your lute and virginals; the King desires you to play and sing for him."

Elizabeth sent her lute, her virginals, and her finest robes down with a message for her sister, Mary. "I am terribly sorry, Sister, but I am afraid that you would have to play it on my behalf. I am unwell, weak, with pains all over my body. I am in no state to be seen, let alone play for our father the King. Please send him my apologies, my regrets, and my love. Tell him that I would perform for him when I am feeling better."

Princess Mary and Queen Barbara were left to apply salve to the wounds of the extremely annoyed monarch, though Elizabeth's older sister was secretly amused and pleased.

For in her beloved little sister's defiance she saw their father's iron will, their father's experience-hardened resolve.

Yes, her little sister was a true Tudor down to her bones, full of the Tudor grace and the Tudor strength.

_Like father, like daughter,_ some might say…

Note: Again, a zillion apologies for taking so supremely long. School has been becoming busier and busier, and my muses are SO NOT HELPING MATTERS. I am truly, terribly sorry. More sorry than I can express. By the way, I would have to confess that updates might become increasingly irregular as my examinations are coming. So sorry, but cannot be helped. Please do review and tell me what you all think, though. Please, please do. It literally gives me the zeal to keep on going. If not, then I might be thinking of abandoning this story. And I am always open to any suggestions or recommendations. Thanks!


	7. Chapter 7

Charles Brandon, Francis Bryan, Edward and Thomas Seymour, and Anne Stanhope were gathered in the parlour of the Seymours' apartments in Whitehall Palace. These most experienced and skilful of courtiers were having yet another one of their secret meetings, while eating rich pastries and drinking some excellent wine that Brandon had brought. Many candles had been lit and the fire was stoked. Edward had said earlier that he had something they needed to see, something that would be of remarkable interest to them, and they wanted to be able to see well, whatever it was that he had to present to them.

But now was still not the time for that…

"I would have thought that her mother's death would have served as a warning," Brandon said. He had, though the urging and manipulations of his wife, came to hate Anne Boleyn with a passion, and had played a major part in her fall from grace and subsequent execution. But his hatred did not stretch to the extent where it included her daughter. In fact, as impossible and absurd as it might seem, he had come to harbour a good deal of affectionate sympathy for Elizabeth, as much as he had for her sister Mary. This sympathy was further enhanced by the little Princess' genuine, irrepressible charm, his increasingly unhappy marriage life, and of course the guilt that occasionally plagued him – his guilt over the undeniable fact that he was a major part of the reason why an innocent child who had done him absolutely no wrong was forever branded a bastard of questionable paternity, and doomed to be remembered by history as the daughter of a whore of the lowest order. How Princess Elizabeth managed to always greet him with a sincere smile, and always treat him with politeness and respect, he would never know, but will never cease to thank Providence for. "But it seems as if she has not taken it to heart. I should warn her, else some misfortune befalls her."

Edward raised a thick eyebrow as dark as his eyes at this. "I have to say that I am genuinely surprised, Your Grace. I would have thought that you would be pleased if she falls out of favour with the King. She is, after all, the daughter of a whore that you and your wife hate to your very bones. And besides, what business is it of yours as to whether or not she is safe and sound?"

"I have no particular quarrel with, or grudge against, the Lady Anne Boleyn, my Lord. But Catherine did," Brandon corrected him with a sigh, a strange bitter seriousness that was truly rare for a man like him now entering his tone. "And in her quest to have Lady Anne disgraced, she turned me against her as well. She taught me to hate her, taught me to dance to her tune of grudge, and like a fool, I did exactly what she wished, as if I were a puppet and she the puppet-master, controlling my hands, my feet, my mouth and even my head with invisible strings."

Thomas shrugged, popping another pastry into his mouth. "No offense, Your Grace, but if she had not done so my sister, may she rest in peace, would not have able to become Queen, nor would she been able to give England the Prince it so desperately needs. What's done is done. And no one can say that it was not done for the best, the very best."

Brandon's lips curled into a smile so bitter that made him look as if he was chewing on lemons. "Yes. That much I cannot deny, I suppose. Were it not for Catherine's hatred of Lady Anne, the King would never have gotten the son he needs to make this country safe. But it does not change the fact that I have been used by her. Cruelly used. And now that she has gotten what she wanted, she has discarded me, as if I were a cup that she had used and wants to break it, a dog that she has grown weary of and wants to drown it – she had finished with me."

Anne stared at him, confusion written all over her sharp features. "Forgive me, Your Grace, but I am afraid that I do not understand you. Is everything well between you and the Duchess?"

The look that the Duke of Suffolk gave her in retaliation told her brutally that she was a fool for asking the obvious.

But he did not look angry, or annoyed, or frustrated. He simply seemed worn out, as if he was weary of the world and of women.

"The fire between us has died out," he said quietly. "And I think that there is no way to rekindle it, not when we have both lost each other… to this degree. She has become so cold and so distant. Every time she opens her mouth, it would only be to either rebuke me or humiliate me without mercy. I have given her property, gold, honours, everything that she could possibly want, and more…and she now repays me with turning me away and dismissing me as if I were a lowly servant. She says that we are no longer children, and that we no longer need indulge in even the smallest gestures of affection. In fact, I do not think I can remember when the last time she smiled at me was," he covered his face with his hands. "And now I am left with nothing but the pain and the humiliation of having been made an utter fool, and have to live the rest of my life with the knowledge that my hands are forever stained with the blood of people who might have been innocent of everything I indirectly accused them of, and that I not only cursed a poor innocent child to live forever in the shadow of disgrace, and even condemned her to fear her very own father above all things. And that father is one of the most important people in my life: my dearest friend and playmate since the days of my earliest childhood, the King to whom I owe loyalty and fealty, and the man who raised me – a lowly commoner – to the highest rank of nobility at a stroke, on a faint whim. He made me who I am today…and I repaid him by teaching his daughter to fear him as if he were a monster among monsters."

"It is not your fault, Your Grace." Francis drank the last of his wine and banged the silver goblet down on the cedar table violently. His dark eyes sparkled with rage. Nothing in the world made him angrier than the abomination of a woman bringing a man to a state so low. _"Believe me, it was not," _he repeated firmly. "You are _not _responsible for what happened to the Lady Anne, or all those men who went down with her, or the Princess Elizabeth. I may be no great philosopher or accomplished scholar, but even I know that everything happens for a reason. Since God has willed all of this to happen, it is no use pondering about what you have already done, or what might have been if you had acted differently back then. _What's done is done, and there is no turning back the clock._ What you should do is focus on is what you can control and change: the present, the future, and of course that accursed, undeserving wife of yours," his full lips curled into a dark, sinister smile that did justice to his nickname of "Black Pope", "In fact, I can help you if you want to. Just say the word…and I will teach that scheming, cold-hearted snake a lesson she would never forget."

Brandon shook his head, his bitter smile now softened a little. "No, thank you, Sir Francis. That would not be necessary. With things at this stage…I do not think that there is anything that would make it better. In fact, I believe it would not be long before we become estranged, as indifferent as strangers. But still… perhaps leaving it as it is would really be for the best. Like you all have said, what's done is done, and there is no way that I could turn back the clock. However much it galls me, however much it denigrates me and pains me, I must and will accept it." He sighs. "I will think of it as God's punishment to me, my burden to bear. I cannot change the past…but at least I can protect the future. And I shall do it by looking out for the Princess Mary and the Princess Elizabeth – _especially the Princess Elizabeth_ – both of whom I have done the most terrible and unforgivable of wrongs."

Edward shook his head, a thoughtful expression on his face. "How is it that _one little girl of seven_ is able to wreak such havoc and unrest among the greatest nobles in the land? At the very end she is just only a royal bastard, or an unwanted Princess, perhaps even a nobody. And her fate has already been unalterably decided long ago: she would either die a spinster due her illegitimacy, or be married off to some safe gentleman or – at best – a minor Prince, and followed by a yearly succession of children. She is absolutely worth no account."

"You do wrong to speak thus of her, my Lord," Anne sneered, as she always did whenever her proud, arrogant husband slighted one of or both the Princesses in favour of his nephew the Prince. Like Brandon, she was very fond of Mary and Elizabeth, knowing that they were two souls of rare and precious purity, and firmly convinced that each of them was something special despite their bastard status. "She is a most beautiful child, with a grace and a wit the like of which had never been seen. I have heard how her tutors say that she has a formidable – yes, _formidable_ intelligence far beyond her years, and that her mind is as acute as can be. They say that they have never known a little lady with a quicker apprehension or a more retentive memory, and that she has a masculine power of application. They even say that if she continues as she has begun…" here a sly smile spread over her face as she regarded her husband triumphantly, "she would become the _equal of men in learning."_

Edward snorted and waved the words away as if fanning gnats. A mere child – and a girl one at that – becoming the equal of men in nerve and knowledge? "Flattery. Nothing more than flattery."

"No," Francis objected immediately, making the Earl of Hertford turn to stare at him in unmistakable surprise. It was so unlike this "Black Pope" to compliment a specimen of the sex that he had always deemed weaker, inferior, more ignorant, and not much good for anything except to "obey and serve". "Not flattery, my Lord Hertford. Your wife speaks of nothing but the truth. I have watched…observed her as closely and carefully as I did her sister. And I have to admit that she is the wittiest and most charming child I have ever seen."

"Not to mention that she is a pure and gentle soul," Brandon added, his smile turning from bitter to warm at the thought of the enchantingly lovely child who was always polite and respectful towards him. "She has an endearing charm her mother never had. The Lady Anne could turn every head in a crowd, but the Princess Elizabeth could warm a heart of ice. She is tremendously engaging, exuding a vulnerable yet lovable appeal from the top of her flaming head to the bottom of her dainty feet, like a young fawn you could resist petting, or a puppy that you could not help but cuddle."

"I must say, I have seen nothing of these qualities that you all claim to exist in her," Edward insisted adamantly.

"Then perhaps you are looking from the wrong places, Brother dear. Try the garden, behind the shrubberies. And maybe you will see what I – I mean, we – have all seen in her."

"Garden? Shrubberies? What in the Devil's name do you mean by that?"

"Exactly that, Brother," Thomas replied, his intensely dark eyes – eyes that had bewitched and broken the hearts of countless women – now sparkling with unholy mischief, making him look like some seductive yet impish trickster god from mythology. The mocking grin on his clean-shaven face set off the magnificent angular lines of his cheeks and jaw to full advantage, his rich, lustrous auburn hair seemed to sparkle with a life of its own in the firelight, and his broad-shouldered, muscular physique was accented by his new suit of dark-green silk. Little wonder as to why he was reputed to be one of the most handsome young men of the court, as well as being utterly notorious for seduction and heartbreak. "I hid myself behind the shrubberies and spied on the Princess Elizabeth as she took her walk in the gardens today."

Brandon's mouth fell open. _"What were you thinking, man? If the King found out he would have your tongue cut and your eyes gorged out!"_

"She was dressed in a strikingly severe style – no gold or jewels at her ears or throat or hands, just plain black velvet and white silk, and her hair was worn loose," Thomas continued, completely ignoring Brandon's comment. "But it all suited her perfectly. Even without the sun, her hair sparkled with bronze and copper and gold, all the colours of gold in one gloriously harmonious curl. The simple yet elegant gown became her sleek and supple figure, and set off her porcelain skin to fullest advantage. There was a perfectly natural, light flush on her cheeks, like the pink of cherry blossoms in spring, and her onyx black eyes were as bright and glittering as two gems set in ivory. Each gesture, each turn of her head and hands, each step, was as graceful and gliding as a dancer, and her voice – I swear to God – was that of an Angel of Music. Like her sister, she has every right to be famed for beauty and charm. A delight. A very picture of a Princess. More than that, I think that she is the most beautiful creature I have ever met. Engaging…as if she was filled with magic, a glamorous power that none can resist once it was turned upon him or her. And such a radiance about her – a classic perfect child fit to be the daughter of the King of Heaven and Earth."

By this time everyone in the room was looking at Thomas Seymour, studying him as if he were a book that had initially been boring in the extreme, but later edited to the extent where they could not put it down, not even for one moment, as if the excitement and wonders it now possessed would vanish without a trace if they allowed themselves to be distracted by other things even for the space of an eye blink.

For there was something about his tone, something about his terms that suggested – unmistakably, powerfully suggested – that it was not the mere flattery of a skilled courtier to a lovely little Princess.

It was something more than that…it sounded more like…a man complimenting a woman he had taken a certain special fancy to…

And no, they were neither mistaken nor the victim of lewd fantasies. Born to be tale-tellers and yard-spinners, bred to be flatterers and liars, they had been trained in the arts of deceit and appearance every single day since they were born. The fact that they had every opportunity to horn their skills every single day, almost every waking moment, simply meant that each and every one of them could give the supreme master of all deception – the Devil – a run for his money. And it also meant that each and every one of them could almost instantly tell when a person truly, genuinely meant what he or she said or not.

Sure, Princess Mary and Princess Elizabeth had always been objects of infinite admiration and endless flattery from the moment their father had taken them back into favour, but the way Thomas spoke about the Princess Elizabeth…it…it…was something entirely different altogether.

And all of them noticed it.

"Have a care, Little Brother," Edward warned, as he poured himself more wine; on his lips was the thinnest of thin lines. "Courting and flattering a King's daughter is harmless enough, but…try anything else…you would definitely become a head shorter."

Thomas shrugged, as if his older brother's threats of the Tower and of the executioner's axe were so commonly employed that they had become rusty, and he was wholly immune to them. "If it is treason to be fascinated beyond redemption by the Princess Elizabeth, then I would think that I have already been beheaded a million times."

"Hush! Fool! Hush!"

"She is irresistible." Thomas insisted, a smug grin crowning his face; his dark eyes sparkled with mockery and amusement at the sight of his brother in such an unusual state of alarm and anger. "I feel the magic. I have neither love nor fondness for her whore of a mother – absolutely none – but still I feel her peculiar, powerful charm. She is a Princess beyond Princesses. And it is only a fool who cannot see that."

"That would be enough." Brandon spoke up before Edward could retort, his courtier's voice booking no argument. Part of him was astonished and severely displeased with Thomas' mad infatuation for Elizabeth, while part of him was now sorely regretting bringing up the exquisite little Princess as a subject of conversation. _What would the King think – or worse, do if he had heard all of this? _It was by sheer force of will that Brandon suppressed a shudder at this most frightening thought. "Let us get to the matter at hand. What is it that you wanted to show us all, my Lord Hertford?"

A slow dark furtive smile spread over Edward's face. "I've found the King a new distraction."

Francis chuckled. "Really? And who is she?"

"Katherine Howard. A distant relation of the Duke of Norfolk, and the Queen's newest lady-in-waiting."

Anne scoffed. "It seems to have become a tradition: the King taking a fancy to one of his wife's ladies-in-waiting. Strange, yet deadly, if you ask me."

"A strange and deadly tradition indeed, but most fortunately it is one that works to our advantage."

"I assume that she is young and pretty?" asked Thomas, popping another pastry into his mouth.

"Yes, indeed," Brandon confirmed. "I remember her. She is like a little work of art, capable of captivating any man."

"We are talking about a King who has a radiant, sensuous Goddess for a wife, and who has the most beautiful of women flinging themselves at him every night of the week. Are you sure she can do it?"

"See for yourself, Little Brother."

Edward snapped his fingers and a young girl stepped from behind a tapestry.

Brandon, Francis, Anne and even Thomas could not help it – they gasped.

They gasped as a whole at the most impishly beautiful creature they had ever seen.

From her flaming head to her dainty slippered feet, she seemed to scream "seduction-personified".

Her red hair, which had been so lavishly brushed that it shone, swept over sweetly rounded shoulders like a mane, its unbound state betokening the modest yet alluring promises of virginity and innocence. She had been thoroughly bathed and scented with rose oil and lavender, if what they smelled were accurate. She was dressed in a gown of tawny velvet of highest quality, the sleeves trimmed with rich black sable, and the kirtle and under-sleeves of sea-green and golden brocade. It brought out the auburn in her hair and the dark, striking green in her sparkling eyes, and the tight lacing pressed her breasts into two mouthwateringly tantalizing curves of creamy flesh at the neck of her gown, and set off her waist – a waist so slender that two hands could have encircled it – to perfection. Free of powder and paint, her charms were completely natural – the crowning glory of which was the enchantingly winning smile that her lush, full cherry lips were smiling.

"Katherine," said Edward. "Here are the excellent people I have told you of. His Grace the Duke of Suffolk. Sir Francis Bryan. My brother, Lord High Admiral. My wife, the Countess of Hertford."

Katherine curtsied demurely, though there was a hint of dark challenge in her clear, unwavering green gaze. "Your Graces," she said, her voice as soft and sweet as water tinkling into a mountain pool.

Anne and Thomas stood and came close to the young girl.

"How old are you, Katherine?" asked Anne.

"Seventeen." Katherine replied, her expression now more alert, more challenging.

Anne smiled. "I wonder who taught you to count?"

Katherine lifted her chin all the higher. This was no shrinking maiden fearing shame or critical scrutiny. This was a girl coming to the edge of womanhood, with enough dignity and wit about her such that she was prepared to fend off whatever embarrassment these nobles - a million times worldlier and more experienced than her - might attempt to cause her.

"Tell us something of yourself," said Thomas, walking around the young girl, considering her assets from all angles. "Your parents. So on."

Katherine shrugged. "My mother died when I was little. My father remarried, but I did not know his new wife, really. I was sent to live in the household of the Dowager Duchess."

Thomas glanced at his older brother. "That would be the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk? Widow of the second duke?"

"Yes, Your Grace," said Katherine. "But I did not see her much. There were many other children there, from lots of marriages. We ran a little...wild. As wild as the nymphs who serve Artemis the Huntress, I might say. There was fun in it. More fun than one could ever, _ever _imagine." She sighed sadly. "Then the fun stopped."

Anne touched the girl's glossy red hair and stroked her smooth, round cheeks. She ran her hands down her arms and took her hands, turning them over to examine them closely. Not a flaw: a perfect pair of hands, as white and dainty as a fairy's, with long, slender, graceful fingers, tipped with French-manicured talon-like nails. Then, with the sly meaningful grin still on her face, she said, "Well, my sweet, beautiful child, I think the fun is just about to start again. What say you, Your Grace?"

Brandon crossed his arms and grinned widely. "I think...I think...she looks fit for a King."

_Note: Hey, I am back. Again, SO EXTREMELY SORRY for taking so long, and for writing so short. It is just that...I swear to God that this is really as far as I can currently go for on. I have been having some troubles at home, not to mention that school and my muses are becoming real pains in my butt. My life has become much more complicated, and there are several times where I even thought about abandoning this story. In fact, if it were not for all your encouraging reviews, I honestly think I would not bother anymore. Please continue to review and tell me what you all think, though, and remember that I am always open to suggestions. Hopefully when my life gets sorted out, I would have more time to muse and to write. _

_One more thing: It is a matter of confirmed historical record that, after Henry VIII died, the Princess Elizabeth went to live with her stepmother and guardian, Queen Katherine Parr, turning down her sister Mary's offer to live with her at Hunsdon. But perhaps it would have been better off if she had gone to live with her sister, or if she had lived alone in her primary residence, for Katherine made the fatal mistake of marrying Thomas Seymour, who abused his position as her stepfather by playing some very inappropriate "games" with the maturing, fourteen-year-old Princess, all implying that he was attempting to seduce her. Hence, I thought that it would be interesting if I added a touch of Thomas' infatuation with Elizabeth here in my story. Then again, if he had really been in lust with her, it would not be exactly unjustified - apart from being a wealthy and privileged young lady, she was also spirited and pretty, and unarguably a wonderful prize for any man, though history states that she was not as beautiful as I had made her to be in story. But don't worry - I would not kill her off. This I promise. Please tell me honestly, though, if you do not like it and wish me to exclude it._

_And again, please REVIEW and tell me WHAT YOU ALL THINK. Like I said, it gives me the ZEAL to KEEP ON GOING! Thanks!_


	8. Chapter 8

"I am honestly wondering as to how I am restraining myself from killing him," Henry said grimly.

Brandon took a deep sharp breath, his countenance inscrutable. Knivert took a sip of wine. Henry paced about the private chamber, his blue eyes sparkling with unmistakable anger, the jealousy on his face so green that it was almost shocking against the flaming brazen red of his hair and beard.

"If the situation really calls for it, Your Majesty, allow me to do it for you," Brandon said quietly, his eyes dark with guilt and self-loathing. "Don't dirty your sacred hands with his filthy, unworthy blood."

"He's _marvellous_," Knivert remarked, as brutally honest as ever. "I've seen him: he is all milk and honey and cream and gold, always having a warm smile and a kind word for her, always willing to give her a hug, and lend her an ear to listen or a shoulder to cry on. I've even heard they say that sometimes she would rest her head in his lap for a nap, and he would plait her hair and sing her a lullaby as she slept. He is the classic example of a kind, devoted, and loving father. It is no wonder that the Princess Elizabeth is so enchanted with him – his spell is potent, alluring, and yet dangerously genuine and sincere. I can see it in his eyes, his face, and his air. Forgive me for saying this, Your Majesty, but I believe that he truly loves her as a daughter."

"He is a serpent!" Henry thundered, as terrifying as a baited boar. Had they – his two oldest and most trusted friends and confidants – not been so used to his wrathful rage, they would have flinched. "A serpent that has treacherously invaded my family Garden of Eden, and tempted one of my beloved Eves into partaking of the Forbidden Fruit! By all rights it should be me that my Bessy should come to for the hugs, the listening ears, the leaning shoulders, and the laps for napping! Yes, it should me and me alone!"

There was a shout from the guard outside the door. "Your Majesty?"

"Leave me, fool!" Henry bellowed back.

Knivert poured the three of them another glass of wine. He had not resided at court for quite some time now, as the management of the estates he inherited from his father had kept him occupied, but he had managed to return to the fount of power, the source of all wealth at long last, where he received an astonishingly warm and tender welcome from Henry and Charles…only to discover that it came with strings. He inwardly sighed. He was actually quite tired of being forced to get involved in others' personal problems and solving them for them, but who dared to say _no_ to Henry of England? Guess he could only blame his damnable bad luck of having a knack of saying just the right thing on occasion, which resulted in his two oldest friends often turning straight to him for help and advice to problems whenever they were too lazy to push themselves to think of solutions all on their own.

"That is why I need you two here. I need you two to think of something. Should I dismiss that whoreson Bors from my daughters' household? I won't have him simpering around my Bessy all day. It makes me furious."

"Leave him alone, Your Majesty," Charles recommended. "At the moment, any move you make against him will only drive the Lady Elizabeth further away from you. Be patient, and be gentle with her."

"I have been patient and gentle with her – _endlessly _– for months," he retorted sharply. "Even Mary - a girl who never shows much emotion, has been warmer, tenderer, and far more responsive than she has when it comes to me. In all honesty, would it kill her just to give me a smile from the heart, or a non-deferential hug?"

"She is still but a child, Your Majesty. It is only natural for her to be scared and uncertain."

"God's blood…" Henry moaned, putting a hand to his forehead as his eyes shut from the intense turmoil of emotions that festered within him like a cancerous tumor. "I would admit that I was not and…perhaps…never would be…the best of fathers, and I might have pushed her away in the past because she reminded me too much of…of…of…" he broke off. Even after all these years, he could not bring himself to even speak that witch's name aloud. By God, the mere thought of _her_ was enough to ruin his mood completely for days. "But that is all the past now. All I want is a chance to get to know her again. I want her to know that I am not the monster that she thinks I am. I want her to know that she has a father who loves her, who is proud of her, and who wants to be a part of the inner world that is her heart. Is that really too much to ask?"

_Perhaps it is. There are crimes that can be forgiven…and there are crimes that cannot be forgiven. And after all the things you did to her and her mother…_Knivert bit his lip as his train of unpleasant thought flowed like a river. He would never voice out loud what he was truly thinking of, of course. King Henry of England might be an engaging and desirable man, full of wit and charm, but when aroused, his wrath was as terrible as that of God Himself, not to mention that now, disagreeing with him even in one's mind was a treasonable offence. "Charles is right, Your Majesty," he said at last, despite not believing or even knowing what exactly he was saying. "She is still but a child, with an untold deal to learn and to understand. Just give her some time. In time she would surely see the light and come to love and care for you from her heart."

"Yes, yes. Perhaps you're right, Knivert. Perhaps what Bessy and I need is a little more time. But I am making one thing perfectly clear: if that bastard from Hell continues to weave his spell about my Bessy I'll rip off his arms and throttle him with my bare hands." Henry said. "Charles, Anthony, either one of you can warn him from me. If I catch him hugging her or looking at her with that Father of Christ smile on his face I'll rip off his arms and throttle him to death with my bare hands."

Brandon and Knivert exchanged one silent glance, then the latter stood up. "I'll say something to him. Perhaps not quite that. Do I have your permission to leave now, Your Majesty? I'm weary."

"Very well," Henry said grudgingly. "You'll stay with me, won't you, Charles?"

"Your wife will talk," Knivert warned before Brandon had the chance to consent. "Already she says that you're always here, plotting yet another one of your nasty schemes, and feeding His Majesty lies and poison about your enemies."

Knivert had apparently thought that his usually-reckless friend would shrug it off, but instead Brandon gave Henry an apologetic look, and rose to his feet to go.

"Women." Henry ground out, his tone dripping with utter irritation. "Women. The most absurd of God's creatures. The one creature that causes more trouble for mortal men than any other creature in this world. Why is it that we men are perpetually doomed to hate and yet love them at the same time? Why is it that, as chaotic as they are, they are vital when it comes to the mandatory task of procreation? Why couldn't our Lord, in all his infinite wisdom, have given our Father Adam the power to breathe life into dust on his own? Why did He choose instead to create for Adam a creature that He, in his endless foresight, had already definitely foreseen would lead mankind into sin and death and hell? We men would surely be a million times happier and more carefree then."

"His Majesty does have a point," Brandon commented to Knivert as he gently closed the door, smiling wryly. "Why did God create Woman when She causes Man nothing but trouble?"

"To add spice to the show that He watches daily," Knivert answered with a heavy sigh. "Let's split up the work. I'll speak to Father Bors. You…go and have a chat with the Princesses. They – especially the Princess Elizabeth – deserve to be warned. It would be exceedingly unfair to her if her own father suddenly snaps and lashes out her before the whole world."

Brandon's mouth fell open. "Me? Why me? How about I do the talking with Bors and you do the chat with the Princesses?"

"Because out of the two of us, you are the one who has the way with women, not me, remember? You are the handsome courtier with the charming smile, the witty eyes, and the agile honey-sweet tongue. I am the blunt, direct, brutally honest rustic with an uncanny knack of occasionally saying what should not be said. And besides…" his eyes narrowed as his tone grew cold. "Who was the one who started this bonfire in the first place? Who was the one who gave that accursed chaplain the opportunity to intrude into the royal lives and stir up such discord? And who was the one who said that he will do anything and everything in this power to help undo the damage done to that poor little girl?"

Brandon was silent for several moments. When he finally spoke, his tone was tinged with a bitterness that made even the cynical Knivert stare at him in slight astonishment. "So I really have to be the one who does all the dirty and difficult work, is it? Whenever and wherever my wife spits, urinates or defecates I have to be the one who cleans up the mess like a servant, is it?"

Knivert's grey eyes turned to ice. In this aspect, he felt no sympathy for his longtime friend. Absolutely none. "Yes," he said brutally, ignoring the tender part of his nature that argued him to be kinder to the man whom he had known since childhood. "You choose to make her your wife. You choose to let her interfere in the most dangerous of matters, and to allow yourself to be persuaded by her in all things. I had warned you long ago that she is not a woman that would bring her husband joy."

* * *

_He is indeed an exceptionally handsome man. _Eustance Chapuys, the Imperial Ambassador, mused to himself with the most approving of smiles as he studied the Spanish Prince seated opposite him in the carriage. Don Luis was in his mid-twenties, clean-shaven with large, piercing blue eyes, a full sensual mouth, and a tall beautiful figure: broad shoulders, a slim waist, and strong muscular legs. He was dressed in a midnight-blue velvet doublet with a ruffled collar of spidery ecru lace and a cloak of dark black velvet. At his neck hung a crucifix made of mother-of-pearl on a heavy gold chain, and - set at a rakish angle on his rich, curly ebony-black hair - was a midnight-blue hat with a wonderful silvery feather pinned on the brim with a great sapphire brooch. He looked like a man who would whisper lovemaking in a woman's ear until she was weak at the knees. He looked like a scandalously handsome rogue, but there was a firmness about his sexy mouth and a set to his broad shoulders that suggested that he might nonetheless be capable of honest dealing. _Yes, he has untold potential..._with Don Luis' face and figure, he could easily win the heart of any woman. The Princess Mary would surely succumb to his charms if both of them played their cards right.

He cleared his throat and started to outline the plan to Don Luis. "The Princess Mary Tudor, this forsaken, accursed land's one last hope at salvation, is currently being tempted by a new Serpent," he said quietly, "Day after day, night after night, perhaps even now as we speak. She has been resisting to the very best of her ability, keeping the Serpent at bay with all of her strength and her faith, but they are diminishing bit by bit, for she is still but a weak and feeble mortal woman. Your task, Your Highness, is to prevent her from falling from grace and plunging this kingdom into everlasting damnation: by becoming a son-in-law of England. You must drive away that treacherous, cunning Serpent, and court her, win her love, and marry her. That is all is required of you. Once that is done..." he smiled the dark ambitious smile of an insatiable courtier. "Just leave the rest to me and the Emperor. We can guarantee you that, when the time comes, you will rule both Portugal _and _England with unchallengable power."

Here the Prince challenged him. "This is a plot. A plot within a plot that involves the vast majority of Europe. Suppose...one day, you, Your Excellency, and the Emperor, _my dear, dear brother-in-law_, decide to hurl down the man whom you two have raised. What is to stop you two from, once again, deposing a King?"

"The day you are crowned," promised Eustance, his eyes as madly fervent as his voice. "you are crowned forever! The Emperor and I can swear upon our immortal souls before the Virgin Mary on this. God in Heaven would most definitely approve of this as well. He has given you good looks, charm, wit, and courage, and the time has come for you to use each and everyone of these admirable qualities to our advantage. It is, after all, for the Greater Good of Europe. Not to mention that, if you succeed, you will be doubly blessed with the greatest lands in Christendom and the greatest peace the world has ever known."

Don Luis was no fool. He knew his brother-in-law and this aging man before him well. He knew that they were utterly selfish people, and that to them he was but a pawn in this deadly game of power and domination. He knew that they both thought him a young, petted, foolish child, one who had been protected from the truest harshness of the real world for most of his life, and could hence be easily manipulated into doing their bidding like a puppet. Whatever promises they make now might amount to nothing at the very end. But still...this mission represented a challenge, and he was a man who relished challenges. Besides, he would be blatantly lying if he said that having a Princess famed as one of the loveliest and most accomplished beauties of Europe for his wife and becoming the King of Portugal and England did not appeal to him.

Hence, he had decided to play along. Let his brother-in-law and this Ambassador think that he was doing exactly what he wanted. At the end of the day, he, like any other man, would make his own way. When the time came, he would show them that he was no piece on a game board, that he was neither puppet nor slave to anyone.

And...he would make them very, very sorry that they had ever thought that they could manipulate him.

"Must any blood be shed to accomplish this?" He asked, concealing his turmoil behind a practiced mask of absolute indifference.

"We shall see about that, Your Highness." Eustance replied. "We shall see about that. The Emperor and I have agreed that we would take this slowly, one step at a time."

"Still, there are other problems," countered Don Luis.

"State them, Your Highness."

"The annulment of Queen Katherine of Aragon's marriage has cast doubts on the Princess Mary's legitimacy. I mean no disrespect here, Your Excellency, but it is now said throughout Europe that Mary Tudor's status is a mystery. No one knows for sure if she is a royal bastard, or an unwanted Princess, or - God pardon my impertinence - a nobody. I do not mean to boast, but I am, after all, a Prince of the Blood and heir to the throne of Portugal. Would not our union be...unfitting?"

Eustance had expected this question and had prepared for it accordingly. "Allow me to assure you, Your Highness, that the marriage of King Henry the Eighth and Queen Katherine of Aragon was a _true legal marriage. _His Holiness the Pope himself has recognized and acknowledged this, and so has the Emperor. Her current status as a royal bastard is solely due to the spite and ambition of the King and the Boleyn harlot, but she _is _a Princess of the Blood through and through. His Holiness has also absolved her from all moral responsibility of acknowledging her parents' marriage to be incestuous and unlawful, and herself to be a bastard, for an oath given under duress is void. Hence, her legitimacy and her status leaves no room for doubt, Your Highness."

_Clever, cunning man, _Don Luis thought to himself, though on the surface he merely nodded to show his conviction. "You and the Emperor have taken care of everything, except for one thing."

"And that is?"

"Conscience," Don Luis replied quietly. "All that is good in me cries out against this plot. Let us not forget, on the day of my judgment, when I stand before our Lord, and if He asks me why I had done all these things despite knowing full well how wrong they are, what would the Emperor and you have me say?"

Eustance was silent for several moments at this. When he finally spoke, it was with an intensity that made Don Luis stare at him. "You will tell Him that what you did, you did all for the Greater Good, and that the end always justifies the means used to achieve this. Tell Him that if you had not done what you had done, England would never ever be restored into His grace, and remind Him that thousands of millions of souls owe their places in Heaven to you, to what you have done for England and for Spain. You are a son of the True Faith, a child of the Holy Roman Catholic Church, and it is your duty to bring as many people as you possibly could into the arms of the one true Lord."

"Now," Eustance went on, "I have sent Your Highness detailed notes to acquaint you with the different people who make up the English court, that you will understand more clearly and know exactly what are you dealing with. Have you studied the notes?"

"I know them by heart," Don Luis assured him, a complacent grin lighting up his handsome face.

"We shall see," replied Eustance, who could not refrain from smiling at this young Prince's absolute confidence. "Let us begin with your rightful bride's family. Her father?"

"King Henry the Eighth. A man that would please himself, a tyrant that answers to nobody. He rules men's bodies and their souls. He speaks for God in his country. He himself believes that he knows God's will, that God speaks directly through him, that he is God on Earth. He will do exactly as he wishes and he will decide if it is right or wrong, and then he will say that God wills it."

"Her new stepmother?"

"Princess Barbara of Switzerland. A beautiful and gentle young woman of few words, but with a deep and genuine affection for her new country and her stepchildren - especially her stepchildren. She had contributed much to bring England away from the side of ignorance, dirt, disease, and had also played a vital role in bringing the King closer to his daughters."

"Your bride herself?"

"Princess Mary Tudor. A young woman as pious, devout, and chaste as her sainted mother had been before her. Though believed by many to be wholly and constantly serene and serious, in the presence of those whom she had let into her heart, she could be astonishingly witty and charming, capable of making a pun or turning a jest in English, French, Spanish, Latin, or Greek. And..." here his smile grew coquettish. "according to a certain Ambassador currently sitting opposing me, a beauty beyond all imagination, with an exquisite singing voice and absolutely no knowledge of any foul or unclean speech, nor of the lusts of the flesh or the pleasures of the bed. I believe said Ambassador had also said that I would treat her like a nun if I took her as my wife?"

"I may well have, Your Highness," Eustance replied, only a little flame of colour in both cheeks betraying his embarrassment. He took a breath and had himself under control again. "Do you know our two greatest opponents?"

"Duke Philip of Bavaria, the Queen's favourite cousin and surrogate older brother, high in royal favour, and a determined Lutheran heretic. He is tall, well-built, and darkly handsome, with thick curly golden-brown hair and large eyes so brown that they are almost black. He could sing, dance, write poetry, and play the lute and virginals perfectly. He carries himself with as much grace and confidence as if he were a Prince of the Blood, and is always simply yet elegantly dressed, for he has a way with clothes and jewellery, and could make much from little. Despite the fact that he presents a gentle and peace-loving appearance to the world, he is actually remarkably shrewd and intelligent, possessed of a passionate and spontaneous spirit, and knows how to play the courtier's game like an expert when necessary. He will stop at nothing, _nothing _to turn the Princess Mary away from the True Faith and make her his wife, and hence is a foe to be reckoned with at all times."

"Excellent. And the other?"

"Ah, yes," said Don Luis, his face and tone now grim. "She is the spawn of the harlot for whom King Henry so wickedly broke with the Holy Father in Rome and took this entire land into sin, a blight and an abomination that should have been killed along with her unholy mother but had yet survived and even thrived through the Devil's dark schemes - the infamous bastard of Europe, the unwanted Princess of England whose paternity is still in unsolvable doubt - the Lady Elizabeth!"

"Yes, and be on your guard with both of them, _especially _the Lady Elizabeth," warned Eustance. "Do not offend her under _any _circumstances or you will lose the friendship of the Princess Mary long before you even have the chance to win her heart."

Don Luis raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. "Does the Princess Mary really love her so much? Even after what that harlot did to her and her mother?"

Eustance nodded firmly, his countenance serious. "It might be strange and unbelievable, but it is true: I have never ever seen a pair of sisters who love each other more. They are also the dearest and most intimate of friends, sharing all their hopes, dreams, secrets, and even _fears _with each other, despite the fact that their mothers had been mortal enemies. Over the years, I have done my utmost to turn the Princess Mary against the Lady Elizabeth, hardening my heart against the knowledge that a motherless little girl would be left all alone, lost and frightened, in a dangerous world without a true friend if I succeeded. But I have failed miserably. For the Princess Mary does not blame the Lady Elizabeth for the harlot's sins, not in the least, and in fact lavishes all of the love and affection that she is capable of on her ever since she had been entrusted to her care. By the Virgin Mary, they even eat on the same table and sleep in the same bed! I myself could hardly believe it until I have seen it with my own two eyes! Many a time I have invented dreadful stories about her, and tried to convince the Princess Mary that the Lady Elizabeth was not even her half-sister, on grounds of what had been proven against that harlot. Not only would she not listen to anything I say, but once she even rebuked me - harshly - for my "unbecoming behaviour" towards _her sister_, and even threatened to have me _horsewhipped _and dismissed if I persisted in my "nonsensical yard-spinning"!"

He shook his head, as if still finding it difficult to believe how defensive Mary could be of Elizabeth. "It was then that I knew I had to stop, or I would lose her favour forever. Mark my words, Your Highness, _do not badmouth the Lady Elizabeth to the Princess Mary._ You will never be in her good books if you do so. It is as clear as crystal that, despite what had been proven against that harlot, she views the Lady Elizabeth as truly her own flesh and blood, as truly her little half-sister, and she loves and cares for her as such. That conviction is so firmly fixed in her head that no one could get it out."

Don Luis nodded. "I will take note of that, Your Excellency. But...tell me more about the Lady Elizabeth. Your notes have informed me that she herself is a most formidable figure, perhaps even more so than the Lutheran heretic. Is it really true?"

Eustance nodded again. "She has inherited all of her mother's beauty and allure, charm and wit. How else do you think was she able to survive to this day? Not to mention that...she is a skilful and experienced courtier in her own right."

"I was told that she is a _child_ who has only seen six summers, Your Excellency."

"Do not be deceived by her youth, Your Highness," Eustance said gravely, "She is young only in years. When it comes to thoughts and experience, she is as ancient and wise as an owl, and she notices everything. Absolutely everything. As much as I loathe to compliment the daughter of that harlot, I am forced to admit that there are few, if any, who could match her for observational and deduction prowess. It is almost as if she is a witch, just like her mother was - an evil witch who hides her true dark nature behind a deceptively beautiful and innocent appearance, and with the frightening ability to read minds, hear thoughts, and bring misfortune to those who cross her path. I fear her as much as I loathe her. On those blessedly rare occasions where we are forced to interact and have eye-contact, I feel as though she is stripping me bare of everything that completes me and makes me who I am. Be warned, Your Highness, her eyes - I swear by the love of all that is good in this world - are those of Satan Himself! Yet, out of oceans of people who pride themselves for wit and intelligence, cunning and shrewdness...I seem to be only one who sees her for the monster that she is. Others all marvel at her beauty, her wits, her talents and her purity, as if they were fools amongst fools. Her tutors all say that..." here he gave a hiss, as if he were some snake whose vicious temper had been aroused upon being stepped on, "she shows considerable promise to be a most accomplished scholar, and that there might come a day where she would be even...even...the equal of men in learning."

By now, Eustance's face was so vehement that, if there was any wine, Don Luis would definitely have offered it to him, for the Ambassador looked like he desperately needed it. But then Eustance gave a great sigh, as if praising the Princess he loathed with every inch of his soul and being had been an utterly torturous ordeal, and in the thin pallor of his face Don Luis could see how Eustance would look like in old age.

"Forgive me if I have offended you, Your Highness," he said quietly. "It is just that the harlot's daughter always brings out the worst in me. It is the greatest, the very greatest of all trials, just to be civil to her for the Princess' sake."

The young Prince shook his head. "No offence taken, Your Excellency. What about that heretic Duke?" He asked, trying an encouraging smile to lift the older man's spirits, and redirecting the conversation so as to calm him down.

Eustance bit his lip. _Talk about going from one extreme to the other. But it was not like he had a choice, right? There were some men in this world who were born to do the dirty work that many others would not do, and he was one of them. _He took another breath to steady himself. "He...is not a shallow man. His attraction to the Princess Mary is not limited to her beauty, her wealth, her power, and all that she had to offer him as a result of those things in combination. He is hopelessly and utterly in love with a woman whom he believes had been created for him by God. And...forgive me if this offends, Your Highness, but I believe that the Princess Mary herself returns his love, though she denies it to the death, and distances herself from him on purpose though her heart and her soul call out to him in requited longing."

Don Luis looked long and hard at the Ambassador sitting opposite him for several moments. "Has he...touched her, Your Excellency?" He asked, his tone so quiet that Eustance had to strain forward to hear him. His blue eyes were icy, beautiful but cold. "Is she truly and genuinely still, as you said, a maid without touch of man, and of pure and unstained reputation?"

"She is, Your Highness, she is. I can swear upon my immortal soul before the Blessed Virgin on this."

"But you said that she desires him as much as he does her."

Eustance chuckled. "Ah, yes. But, from the moment she could walk and talk, the Princess Mary has been taught by her sainted mother to do right by her God, and that would always come first for her. She might adore that heretic, she might burn with desire for him, and would have done almost anything in the world to be his wife and the mother of his children, but she would never have sinned for him nor for any man. She would never deny her God. As long as Duke Philip of Bavaria remains a Lutheran heretic, the Princess Mary would never ever marry him, let alone condemn herself to be a shameless woman of the marketplace and lie with him without being bound in the sacred ties of marriage. Believe me, Your Highness, she is utterly incapable of it. She would rather live and die the unhappiest spinster in Christendom than sin in the eyes of her God by surrendering her honour to the pleasures of the bed and board."

Don Luis gave a small sigh of relief, and visibly relaxed. Though he had not yet met her face-to-face, it was genuinely comforting to know that the Princess whom he had been instructed by the Emperor to court and wed was an utterly pure and chaste soul who put her conscience and her duty first in all things. His pride as a Prince of the Blood, a Prince of Spain, the future King of Portugal, would not take kindly to pursuing a fallen woman, even if said fallen woman was the greatest Princess in Europe. "So...what exactly is the situation between them, Your Excellency?"

"According to my spies, so far he has not made any forward advances towards her, but he is playing the game of a serious, genuine courtship. He is courting her like a _lover_," Eustance spat out that last word as if it were poison. "He has been sending her pretty flowers, rich fruits, and poems praising her beauty and asking for her favour. Of late, his gifts have progressed from being mere little goodies and notes to jewellery."

Don Luis sat up boltright. "Jewellery?"

"Yes," Eustance said grimly. "Jewellery. Most fortunately for us, the Princess Mary has been adamantly refusing to accept them and has sent all of them back, as if they were worthless. But I can see that her refusal comes at a considerable effort, and that a part of her - no matter how much she tries to be rid of it - is touched by his rich gifts, for each piece of jewellery is hand-picked and exquisite, not only priceless, but also of the finest and most striking hues. Each and everyone is fit for a Queen, and perhaps a Queen of Queens at that, I daresay."

A slow cruel dark smile spread over Don Luis' face. "Well...if this is the game he wants to play, Your Excellency, I say we oblige him and play along. Let us both teach him a lesson that he will never forget, and see to it that God's will is done here on Earth as it is in Heaven."

Eustance returned the grin, his heart roaring with triumph and delight. "I could not agree more, Your Highness, I could not agree more. But the most urgent thing for you to remember is to beware of that heretic and that little witch, and to keep me near you!"

"I well believe it, _Signore_!"

Note: Hello everyone. Again, a zillion apologies for taking so unforgivably long. I have been having exams and am down with flu, you see. Since I have not written in such a long time, I am now quite uncertain about my writing skills. Please have a look and tell me what you all think and feel. And remember that suggestions are always supremely appreciated. Thanks! Until next time...


	9. Chapter 9

"My finest robes, Susan," Mary ordered. "That is what Eustace suggested, and it is only right that I should receive the Prince of Portugal in my finest robes. I must look my very best, for much depends on this meeting."

She had never met Don Luis face-to-face before, and had only heard about him a few times from Eustace years ago, when there was a possibility of their marriage. After her father, for reasons still unknown to her, intervened and caused the matter to be quietly dropped, she had slowly grew to forget about him altogether, as if he had never been mentioned as a potential husband for her. Hence, it had been a great shock – a tremendously great shock, in fact – to learn that this once-proposed suitor of hers had not only resurfaced with all the suddenness of a spring rainstorm, but even had come to England personally to pay court to her. It was a surprise that, truth be known, she was still uncertain as to whether she welcomed it from her heart or not.

From what she had been able to recall from faint remnants of memory, Don Luis had been said to be a distinguished warrior, a paragon of virtue, and a fine specimen of a man: tall, dark-haired, blue-eyed, and handsome. When she first heard of him, she had been but a young girl of twenty years old, newly restored into her father's favour, and completely focused on caring for her motherless, bastardised little sister. Despite having privately renounced all hopes of marriage and sensual love, she recalled that she could not help but feel a sense of wonder and excitement when she heard Eustace speak to her of his good looks, his charm and his virtues, and how they would make a perfect, handsome couple that her sainted mother would approve of. She also remembered having felt a stab of disappointment when Eustace gravely informed her that any possible plans of marriage between her and this mysterious, charming Spanish Prince had been cancelled by her father. Her only consolations then had been that it did not hurt as much as she thought it would, due to a large part of her having already foreseen this happening, and that the constant care that her still-young-and-hence-vulnerable sister demanded prevented her from surrendering to melancholy.

Though only a few years had passed since then, the woman that was her now felt differently. There was nothing of that strange, wonderful sensation of being charmed, of feeling excitement flowing along with the blood in her veins, and of actually…_hoping_ that she had been wrong about concluding that she would never ever be married, and that she was much better off being a husbandless, childless spinster anyway. On contraire, she actually felt distinctly uneasy. Apart from her old fears of marriage and romance flaring to life as a fireplace would after being fed with wood, it was also as though her woman's intuition was telling her that there was far more to this new suitor than what he seemed, and he would cause her to become embroiled in yet another one of those cruel, ceaseless plots between the insatiable powers of Europe.

Yes, Mary was no fool. She might be pious, she might be devout, and she might be taught at a young age by her mother to think kindly of everyone and to forgive others for their sins, but she was not stupid. The last thing that anyone could accuse her of was stupidity. For all that she was a Princess who had been raised since infancy in the quiet, simple life of the country, she had a good deal of wit and intelligence, and she most certainly was not blind or deaf. She knew that plots were an inevitable major factor in the life of a child of royalty, a child of the court, and she knew that the war between her father, King Henry of England, King Francis of France, and Emperor Charles of Spain for the title of the greatest monarch in Europe was one that had been raging on for as long as memory permitted, and it was one that could only end with their deaths. That the entire region of Europe becoming embroiled in this petty, meaningless squabble of three greedy cunning monarchs who already possessed so much was something to be regretted, but also as unavoidable as bad weather.

Secretly, though, so secretly that she did not confess it even to herself, she thought that all of this might turn out to be a waste of Don Luis' time, and that it would be best for him to go court another. She was not the only pebble on the beach after all, and there was already a man whom she knew to be her soul's mate, a man who had been popping into her thoughts with increasing frequency, unfailingly appearing in her dreams every night to render her breathless with longing and desire, and was courting her as a knight would his chosen lady.

Then, resolutely, she pushed all confusion aside. Regardless of how she personally felt, no matter whether the praises Eustace had sung of this Don Luis were true or not, she must prepare accordingly for his visit. Yes, it was her duty as a Princess of the Blood Royal, a Princess of England, to see to it that he was received properly, and made welcome to her country with all manner of civility and courtesy. Her mother had taught her that, for Princesses like her, personal feelings and private emotions must always come second, if ever at all. _Duty_ must and always be the first in everything for her. She must dress to advantage, and present herself at her very, very best…

Choice of attire was becoming an increasingly difficult task for both her and her sister, since their father's recent favour and attentions towards them meant they were almost swimming in the finest of brocades, damasks, laces, and silks. Millions of females would have killed to have all their rich fabrics and gorgeous gowns, but the grim reality was that the more one had, the harder it is to make a choice, and sometimes the mere process of thinking and selecting could give one a splitting headache, especially since each material was just as fine and as splendid as the other. But, finally, she managed to make one: the grey, pearl-trimmed gown that her cousin, the Emperor, had sent her as a gift. As a royal virgin, she would wear her chestnut hair loose, and had it brushed with hundreds of strokes and rubbed gently with red silk soaked in highest-quality Spanish rose oil to give it shine and colour. Costumed and perfumed thus, no one can doubt her love of Spain, or her appreciation towards the Emperor for his kindness and generosity, and surely would bring smiles of delight and approval to the lips of the man whom she loved as a father and this new Spanish suitor of hers.

That night, she sank into the most immaculate of curtseys as the introduction was made by a widely grinning, triumphant Imperial Ambassador. A well-built, dark-haired man richly dressed in dark blue velvet removed his jaunty feathered hat and swept her a beautiful courtly bow. He was a little taller than she had expected, his taut stance spoke of regular training with his sword and bow and daily riding for hours, and his eyes were like chips of bluest ice, but he greeted her courteously nonetheless, and kissed her hand warmly. She smiled at him, and in that moment, the cold eyes took fire and began regarding her appreciatively, raking up and down her person…

One would have thought that Mary would have responded to Don Luis' admiring scrutiny, for which female did not relish in male admiration? And Mary was, after all, a woman coming into the midsummer of her life, coming into the full bloom of her youth and beauty and vitality, increasingly ready for the marriage bed.

However, she did not.

As Don Luis took in the measure of her as a horse-dealer would a stallion, she felt nothing of those unthinkable, glorious sensations that had almost overwhelmed her completely when she was with Philip. There was nothing of that utterly unexpected, yet utterly delightful shock of desire that had coursed through her loins when she was with him. There was none of that _frisson,_ that _frisson_ that he had caused her to experience with every inch of her soul and being; a feeling of recognition, of her bones melting, of desire fuelled by physical intimacy. The admiration of this stranger brought her neither joy nor pleasure; it did not make her heart sing, it did not make her soul soar, it did not make her simultaneously hot and cold. For a fleeting moment, she wished that she had worn a modest high-necked gown instead of this seductive grey costume that bared her shoulders and exposed arousing glimpses of her arms, her elbows, and even her bosom. Never had she felt as though she was actually as naked as a newborn baby before a stranger. She was careful, though, to remain outwardly calm, and bent her head demurely so that Don Luis could neither see the discomfort in her eyes, nor discern that the flush in her cheeks stemmed more from embarrassment than joy at being an object of sexual admiration.

Looking at her, and marvelling at how different she was from all the other ladies he had met, Don Luis could now understand why praises of Mary Tudor were sung throughout Europe despite her illegitimacy. For the young female standing before him was every inch a voluptuous and ravishing beauty, and though her exquisitely lovely face shone with the gentleness and serenity of the most devout saint, she had an indefinable yet potent allure about her that inspired the most erotic thoughts in him. _What would it be like to take this ripe fresh beauty to bed and do with her as his fantasy led? Possibly Paradise itself!_

_Was she as pure and chaste and innocent as they all claimed?_ He did not know and, frankly, no longer cared, but he wanted her friendship at the very least.

"Princess, I am honoured to be presented to you, and wish you every joy and happiness imaginable," he said in charmingly-accented Latin.

"It is also an honour for me to be presented to you as well, Your Grace. I bid you welcome to England," she replied in her own eloquent and fluent Latin.

"I have heard tales of your beauty and charm, but…I had no _idea…"_ Don Luis said, staring so intently at Mary that it was all she could do not to let the blush on her cheeks redden even more.

"There is no need for you to regale me with false flattery, Your Grace," Mary said, the most gracious of smiles on her lips. "There is no need for such tales."

Don Luis smiled, revealing white even teeth beneath his full lips. "I assure you, Princess…tales they may be, _but false they certainly are not."_

"It is my earnest desire that you will find your stay in England a long and happy one, and that I would be a true and faithful friend to you," Mary said, ignoring his compliment, though her eyes were warm. By this time, she had regained much of her composure, and was hence able to will away the red of her cheeks, leaving them their natural rosy-pink colour. She was determined to show that, as a Princess of England, it would take more than just words and eyes to make her melt, and that as her mother's daughter, she cannot be faulted for dignity and politeness.

"It is my sincere desire too, Princess. I have heard that England is a rich and fertile country, filled with fountains and the sound of dripping water, ripe with warm fruits and scented with flowers. I have also heard that the English court fairly overflows with beautiful, sensual young women, graceful of both step and speech, and skilled in all the arts. But none of them, I daresay, could hold a candlelight to you." He gently pressed a finger against her lips to prevent her from interrupting with some protest, and inwardly marvelled at how soft that Cupid's bow mouth felt against his touch. _And how would a fruit as rich and as soft as that taste? Honey? Sugar? Cinnamon? Or the fruits that grew in the very Garden of Paradise? _"It is my greatest joy to find you without equal for beauty, wit, elegance, accomplishments, and faith in religion. You have all virtues, _milady._ And you have a kind and loving Prince for a friend." Impulsively, instinctively, Don Luis took Mary firmly at the shoulders and kissed one warm, smooth cheek and then the other. The perfume of her hair and the warm female smell of her body came to him, and he felt desire pulse in his groin and at his temples. Quickly, he stepped back and let her go.

Again, Mary could not help but compare the German Duke with the Spanish Prince. The brush of Philip's lips upon her flesh had been electrifying, setting her afire and making her feel as though she was flying to Paradise itself. Don Luis' lips, however, felt as naked and cold as death, and they stirred none of those wonderful feelings that Philip's kisses had. Also, Philip had the most soul-searching dark eyes, the deepest pools of black-brown. It was a depth that she had been drawn into, and one that held her completely, absolutely spellbound. As vast as they had been, if one were to study them more carefully, one could discern that they were actually bright with intelligence, and shone with the genuine tenderness and warmth of his golden nature. Don Luis' orbs of sapphire-blue, though no less beautiful than Philip's eyes, seemed too piercing and too hard, and they had none of Philip's radiant warmth. They gave Mary the impression of ice, ice of a winter so cold and so bitter that it would destroy all living creatures while it reigned supreme over the entire earth. And it made her curious about the true nature of this undeniably charming yet mysterious young Prince.

Well, it did not matter. _Duty came first, after all…_"Your Highness does me too great a kindness," she said, her beautiful face a classic portrait of politeness. "If I can ever be of service to Your Highness, I shall not hesitate."

Don Luis nodded, one of his rare smiles on his face. _Be of service to me, my dear Princess? Oh, you shall. You shall. You most definitely shall be…in more ways than one…_

* * *

"Come in, child."

While Father Joseph Bors sat on a stool with his back turned to the door, he had the acute hearing and highly tuned senses of a true man of God. Knowing who came up behind him was a skill that determined life over death on the battlefield that was the court.

Elizabeth smiled gently as she glided into the room with her ethereal grace, her feet in their velvet slippers not making any sounds at all as her long gown kissed the ground. Her confessor's room was nothing compared to her own lavishly-appointed apartments or the luxurious suites of the high-ranking nobles, of course; it was rather small, dominated by a bed, and with only a few pieces of furniture. But it was a comfortable room nonetheless, and it had a warmth that seemed to be a testament of its master's heart of gold, a warmth that reminded Elizabeth strongly of Hunsdon, the home where she could be her true self and share the joys of life with the older sister whom she loved as a mother. Yes, it might be one of the simplest chambers of this grand, elegant palace, but to Elizabeth, its master's purity and innocent goodness made it seem like the very walls were alive with happy memories, and actually breathing with the priest that lived within them, and that was a million times better than the cold, impersonal apartments of the high-ranking nobles who had allowed the curse of ambition to shrivel and twist their very souls until they were ugly beyond description.

Father Bors gestured to the table where he sat, staring at a chessboard. He still had not looked up at her. "What move would you make here, if you were I, child? This one?" He indicated the black knight. "Or that one?" Pointing to the black bishop.

Elizabeth contemplated the board for a moment before responding. "Neither."

Father Bors looked up for the first time, coming face-to-face with the young Princess whom he had grown to love and care for as the daughter he never had, and caught his breath. Even in a simple white nightgown with a Tudor-green cloak over her sweetly rounded shoulders, and with her copper hair loosened for sleep, she was as utterly gorgeous as if she were gowned in the finest of silks, and with her hair braided or plaited with the richest of jewels. Her skin, which seemed to give off a soft, ivory glow of its own, was perfect: not a spot, not a blemish, not a mark anywhere. It was becoming increasingly clear that those rumours about her having inherited marks of the Devil from her mother and exploiting them to add to her grace were all but lies, born of sheer scandal and spite, not logic or truth. No one can look at her and say that she is not a child blessed by God, nor could anyone look at her and say that she is not a genuine credit to the family that she had been born into.

"What do you mean, neither, child? Both are good moves."

Elizabeth nodded, getting closer to the board. "Yes, but both are obvious and provide only immediate relief. If you look ahead by three or four moves, you will see that neither is of any benefit to you in the long run. I would go after the rook, here. It will take longer, but it will bring you that much closer to taking the white king. Check in six. If your opponent is unskilled, checkmate."

The priest's handsome face split into a grin. "You do not disappoint me, child. Now sit down, and let us play."

* * *

Elizabeth beat him. But she had to admit that it was not the usual routing she was used to giving her other opponents across a chessboard. Father Bors was the rare mental match for her; it was part of the reason why the bond of love, faith and trust between them was so powerful. Elizabeth had learnt that there was as much to admire in her confessor's intellect as there was in his staunch faith, his unshakeable belief that each man or woman should be allowed to believe what they wish, and worship how they wish, to a God whom they name as they wish. While he was completely mute when asked any questions about his past, he was clearly a man of the world, and an educated one.

Following the game, Father Bors presented the young Princess with a gift that, despite her having seen fabulous jewels throughout her life, caused her to give a gasp of wonder and delight.

It was a ring: a large, magnificently perfect ruby, encircled with sparkling diamonds, and set in highest-quality pure gold.

Never before had Elizabeth seen a ruby so red and so beautiful. By God, she did not even think that it was possible for a gem as exquisite and as flawless as this to exist, except only in fairy tales!

"This had been a gift from a man to whom I owe everything, a man who had saved me from eternal damnation, and who taught me the ways of love, peace, and forgiveness. It is my most prized possession, and I have kept it for many years. But the time has come for me to present this to you, child. Only you, you whom I love as dearly as I would a daughter, is worthy of this ring, for it is actually a representation of how the power of love and forgiveness saved a soul heavy with sin from everlasting torment in the legions of Hell. And you, child, have the most loving and most forgiving of hearts, and therefore fit in every way to wear this special ring. Please do not refuse this."

Elizabeth was speechless. When she finally found her voice again, it had a shaking, uncertain edge to it, as though she was about to burst into tears from being utterly touched. "Are you certain that you want me to have a token as precious and as blessed as this, Father?"

Father Bors nodded firmly. "Yes, child, I am certain. In fact, I have never been more certain of anything else in my life. Think of it not as a gift from me, but as a gift from God, so that…even one day, when your loved ones are gone, it would bring you comfort by reminding you of God's infinite love to us all, and that the dead we love would never truly leave us, and that we would definitely see them again sometime. So please do not refuse this. Please do not. Let us put it on your finger and have a look at how it fits."

* * *

In the morning, Anthony Knivert and Father Joseph Bors found themselves side by side on the way to Mass. They walked past the Princesses' open door and saw Elizabeth seated before her vanity, with her governess, Kat Ashley, plaiting her copper hair with jewels and winding the plaits around her aged skilful fingers, checking to see if they were any flaws or rooms for improvement. As Father Bors went by the door he slowed down and smiled at Elizabeth and, as if on cue, she turned her head and saw him. Her dark eyes instantly sparkled with pleasure and a smile as warm and as tender as his curved her mouth. She held up a dainty white hand so that he could see the ruby ring burning on her finger like a fallen star. It had, miraculously, fitted her as perfectly as if it had been specially made for her.

Father Bors and Knivert kneeled side by side in the Royal Chapel and listened to the Mass celebrated before the altar of the church below them.

"Father Bors," Knivert said quietly.

The priest opened his eyes; he had been far away in prayer.

"Yes, Sir Knivert? Forgive me, I was praying."

"If you go on bewitching the Princess Elizabeth with those sickly sweet smiles of yours, and slipping little tokens of your so-called "affections" on her pretty little fingers, the King will beat your lips to ribbons and rip your arms off your body with his bare hands."

* * *

Hello everyone, I'm back! Again, another zillion apologies…but this is really the very, very best I could conjure up on short notice. My school course has been literally mad. Please have a look and tell me what you all think and feel. And remember that suggestions are always supremely appreciated. Thanks! Until next time...


	10. Chapter 10

The Princess Elizabeth's indifference to her father's "advances" and increasing affection for her confessor had not gone unnoticed by her new stepmother and her potential brother-in-law either.

"It is all I can do not to laugh whenever I hear a spiteful tongue accuse my pure, beautiful little stepdaughter of not being my husband's child."

"Indeed, Your Majesty, indeed. Truth be known, it is one of the most nonsensical things I have ever heard. I mean, how could anyone possibly suggest for a moment that she is _not_ her father's daughter? I have watched her, and I have seen His Majesty the King there in her gestures, in her grace and her dignity. Not to mention that she possesses a charisma that I have never ever seen in any other person, save His Majesty, and of course my precious, beloved Mary."

Queen Barbara's hazel-brown eyes grew sad. "It is a pity that there are such dark and terrible storm clouds between the father and the child whom, in my personal opinion, resembles him the most."

That was a fact.

It was becoming increasingly clear that, despite all that had been "proven" against her mother, Elizabeth was – out of the three royal children – the one who resembled her father the most, both in appearance and in certain aspects of psyche. Apart from the striking Tudor colouring, she had a look that Barbara had, so far, only seen from the older Tudor Princess, Mary. A modest woman always looked away or kept her eyes on the ground before their feet. But Elizabeth, like Mary, had the brave bold look of their father, the look of someone who had been bred to think that he might rule the world. She had his gaze: a straight look that a man might have, scanning one's face, reading one's soul through the eyes, showing one her own open face and her own clear eyes.

Little wonder that a few tongues had, more than once or twice, dared to say out loud that it was the greatest shame, the truest pity, that the Princess Elizabeth had not been born a boy.

Philip nodded. "Like a mountain of granite, the father. But the daughter is too a mountain, and a far more stubborn one at that."

"The King has told me that Charles and Anthony had suggested giving her more time, and that perhaps she can be brought around…"

"You cannot make a person what she is not." Philip smiled wanly at the beautiful young Queen whom he loved as a younger sister. "Forgive my bluntness, Your Majesty, but I do not believe that anyone can transform a person who does not want to be thus changed. No one has ever achieved true greatness using just the mind. One must also engage the heart. I do not think that the Princess Elizabeth will do that, because she does not want to. But…that is, of course, just merely my personal humble opinion of the situation. What do you yourself think, Your Majesty?"

Barbara answered carefully. "What do I think? Or what do I feel? Because that is what this comes down to, is it not? Elizabeth knows how to think, but she does not know to feel, and she choose to stay in that place of isolation. I do think that anyone would or could draw her away from that choice, as she holds it too close. There is great darkness in her heart, a darkness that comes from sadness. It is not of her own making or of her own doing, but it is there all the same."

"Elizabeth is as much a spirit of purity, light and goodness as my Mary is. She loves those whom she has her heart with every inch of her soul and being. She is gentle and kind to all those who are under her, and submissive and obedient to those who are her superiors. She has no great love for her father, but has always treated him with the utmost politeness and respect," Philip pointed out, jolted into defensiveness by his cousin's perspicacity. He knew how dearly his beloved loved her little sister, and he himself had grown to be deeply fond of her for her own personal sake, so much so that he was prepared to protect her if the situation called for it.

"I know that, Philip," Barbara replied, her sweet voice rich with an assurance that she bore no intention of offence. "But the fact is…I think…she is an angelic spirit who has been damaged by her human experiences, and this happened at a very young and vulnerable age. In all honesty, I do not know what it would take to crack her open and release the light that is trapped within her spirit. As you have said, she is as stubborn as her father is, and after all that has happened between her and her mother and her father, there is simply an overwhelming amount of sadness and sin and loss, perhaps too much for even the wisest of men to resolve. But…there is always hope. She is, after all, a pure soul capable of great love and tenderness, and hence I believe her capable of embracing forgiveness for others and for herself as well. I think I would advise the King to wait, to be patient and treat her with love, gentleness, and forgiveness, as our Lord taught us through his commandments, and see if that brings about a change in her."

"And…if it does not?" Philip asked quietly, a worried look darkening his arrestingly handsome face.

Barbara sighed, a deep and sad sound. "Then I shall have take the matter to God, and leave it in His hands. But surely He would not be so cruel as to condemn a poor, innocent little child to live in perpetual darkness and fear after He had already taken away her mother and her reputation."

"Amen to that."

* * *

Mary and Elizabeth were in their apartments sewing blackwork, the famous Spanish embroidery of black thread on white linen, when an unexpected visitor was announced.

"His Grace the Duke of Suffolk, Madams," said Susan Clarencieux, Mary's intimate friend and favourite lady-in-waiting.

The two sisters exchanged a confused, wondering glance, but Mary still turned her dark head to Susan and nodded. She laid aside her and Elizabeth's half-done sewing, and – more out of instinct and propriety than any genuine need to – checked their hair and their faces, and wrestled with imaginary wrinkles from their bodices and smoothed their skirts to ensure that both of them were indeed in immaculate, pristine condition.

Then they stepped forward to greet the man who was one of their father's most intimate friends, as well as the person who had played quite a major role in them both being shamed and bastardised and motherless, not that they knew the full exact details, of course.

Not for the first time, Brandon was struck by their radiant and unearthly loveliness. Beauty had been and always would be the quality he found most attractive, and both of King Henry's daughters were pure, yet real, living examples of this invaluable quality. When he came to compare them with the other ladies of the court, it seemed that, no matter how well-bred, how well-taught, how pretty, how charming, or how spirited they were, there was a certain uniformity about them and often one could mistake one for the other. But that could never ever happen to these two sisters. Indeed, the very sight of them, standing side by side, was dazzling and utterly distinctive. Providence, it seemed, had endowed the two Princesses with a kind of indescribable charm that was heightened and perfected by contrast: apart from the creamy fair complexion that both their mothers possessed, as well as the famous Tudor air of grace and authority that they had undoubtedly inherited from their father, their looks ran along the opposite ends of the spectrum.

Mary's face was rounded like a child, her nose, the Spanish nose of her mother, straight and long, her eyes alive with dancing lights of the deepest sea, and her mouth a perfect Cupid's bow. Elizabeth, on the other hand, had a heart-shaped face; her nose was small and fine, her eyes glistened like onyx, and her hair, the Tudor-copper hair, shone brighter than her sister's chestnut tresses.

Even the colours they wore were opposites: Mary was wonderfully gowned in wine-red velvet trimmed with the rich dark fur of rare black wolves, while Elizabeth was dressed in an exquisite Tudor-green silk shot through with silver thread, and matching silver baubles. Their glorious hair were loose, rippling down like waterfalls with fine golden chains braided into strands at the temples, and dainty velvet slippers set with great diamond buckles shod their feet. Brandon instantly knew, with a certainty that shook him to the core of his being, that the two sisters were completely dressed – from head to toe – in hand-picked gifts from their father the King, for wealth and style far beyond that of the Princesses' allowances and usual tastes showed in the quality of the velvet, fur and silk, in the expense of the cut, in the weight of the gold chains and the size of the buckles.

_How ironic,_ he mused to himself, though of course he would never voice it out loud. _How ironic is it that these two sisters should compliment each other so perfectly, and love each other so dearly, when their mothers had been the bitterest of foes. And how ironic is it that their son-obsessed father should only realise how special they are, and seek to bond with them after he had killed their hopes and had taught them that his love is something to be feared as much as it is to be revered._

_And whose fault is that?_ A bitter, angry little voice that sounded remarkably like his friend, Knivert, snapped in his mind. _Whose fault is it? Whose fault is it that the Princess Mary had lost her mother, her rank, and her prospects of a throne and marriage? Whose fault is it that the Princess Elizabeth lost her mother, her status, her reputation (forever), and was taught to fear her very own father as if he were a terror even among monsters? Whose fault is it that two of the best and most beautiful daughters a man could wish for lost all that they held dear in life forever? Was it really because of their father and their father alone? Or…was it because their father had been misled by friends who he thought he could trust with his life and his soul?_

Wholly ignorant of Brandon's inner turmoil, Mary and Elizabeth swept him the most graceful and elegant of curtseys. "Your Grace."

At once he smiled his polite courtier's smile, and gave a low respectful bow. "Greetings, Lady Mary, Lady Elizabeth."

* * *

Brandon took a grateful mouthful of the rich, sweet wine that had been offered him after both he and the Princesses had made the conventional polite inquiries, and had seated for refreshments. His admiring gaze took in the vivid precious tapestries, costly Turkish carpets, and fine glided furniture. Bowls of daffodils stood out on the sandalwood tables and chests, and there were bright green velvet curtains at the latticed windows. The Queen, he remembered, had asked for the tables to be set in the window embrasure, so that her stepdaughters could get the best light for their reading and studies. "These are truly beautiful and charming rooms. Their Majesties the King and Queen, I believe, did a good deal to it when they decided that you two should be given permanent lodgings at court."

"Yes, Your Grace, I believe they did," said Mary, whose beautiful, serene face was warm with a heartfelt smile. One of the things that pleased her most in the world was a testament of parental love, as she had had the terrifying, nightmarish experience of losing the favour and affection of the very people who had given her life, and whom she had loved and revered with all of her heart since she learnt how to walk and talk. "And they could not have bestowed their kindness on two more grateful subjects. Is that not right, Beth?"

Elizabeth nodded, a smile also on her lips. Brandon's experienced courtier's eye, however, saw that the smile was more polite than sincere, and that those extraordinary dark eyes – eyes of the woman whom he had indirectly murdered – were soft with wistful sadness, as if the young Princess had already, instinctively, foreseen that the impending conversation at hand was one that she was not going to enjoy at all. _O, Princess, is your fear of your father honestly so great that it has even included his intimates as well…?_

"So how do you find life at court, Lady Mary?"

Mary thought for a moment. "Invigorating, exciting, and highly enjoyable, Your Grace," she replied, her tone so earnest that no one could doubt that she was speaking the truth. "As His Majesty's daughter, I have a natural and tender love for the life of the court, one that is made all the more passionate by the presence of my entire family and my dearest friends. But I have to confess that there have been times, Your Grace, where I have missed my main residence of Hunsdon House."

"That is perfectly understandable, Lady Mary, perfectly understandable." Brandon assured, the smile on his handsome face now genuinely warm and friendly in the face of this exquisite young Princess' honesty. "Trust me; I know exactly how you feel. But…" he now turned to face the little Boleyn Princess, "what about you, Lady Elizabeth? How you do find life at court?"

For a moment, just a brief fleeting moment, Brandon saw the courtier mask of Elizabeth's face slip away to reveal a thoroughly surprised little girl, as if she honestly had not expected him to venture into such personal territory with her. _Does this mean that she had believed that I care absolutely nothing for her, and have only been warm and friendly with her only for courtesy's sake?_ Brandon wondered worriedly, guiltily. He did not like the idea of being thought ill of and feared by any child, least of all a child as pure and as innocent and as beautiful as this Princess, who was one of the nicest persons he knew and to whom he already owed a debt so great that he can never ever pay it in full.

After a short pause, at a look at her older sister (it seemed to Brandon that she was drawing courage and strength from the warmth in her sister's smile and the love in her sister's eyes), Elizabeth responded with the only way she knew how.

With tact and elegance.

"Life at court is, as my sister had said, full of wonder and excitement. It is colourful, busy, and noisy, all the things that life in the nursery palaces is not, and the greatest of privileges would be able to stay close to His Majesty the King. As one of his children, I find myself courted and flattered, and it would be the most blatant of lies to say that I do not enjoy it."

She refrained from mentioning that, a young and ignorant little child though many might believe her to still be, she could sense the darker side of life at court: the insincerity, the vicious intrigues, the backbiting, the tensions and jealousies. And _fear_ too…that was often palpable. How could it not be, when the King's displeasure could mean imprisonment, ruin, or even _death?_

Not to mention that it was all she could do not to run away, as far and as quickly as she possibly could, at the sight of the father whom she had grown to fear as a monster and a madman.

Brandon had to admire Elizabeth's tact. She presented all the favourable aspects of the court that everyone expected that a royal bastard like her would enjoy, but she did not reveal how she truly felt about anything and everything either. Strange to say, his admiration was not tingled with annoyance as one would have anticipated him to feel due to his not receiving the much-desired direct answer, but a sad disappointment. It was then that surprise reared its head. Had he really been expecting to receive a direct, honest answer from her like he had with her sister Mary, despite having learnt that the one and only person that she confided everything in was said sister? Had he really been hoping so much that the answer she gave would not be that of a classic child of the court, and that she was enjoying court life to its fullest, despite the fact that anyone with the least bit of common sense would know it was almost impossible for her to do so, given her history and her parentage?

_She has a gift, this Princess, the gift, of making those who truly knew her not only unable to hate her, but also genuinely care for her well-being and her happiness. A rare and precious gift that, so far, I have known and seen only one person to possess and demonstrate…yes, she definitely is her father's daughter and a Tudor…she must have inherited it from her paternal grandmother, the late Queen Elizabeth of York…_

"If you do not mind, Lady Elizabeth, may I speak freely?"

"You may, Your Grace."

"If I were to ask you to make a choice between Hampton Court and Hunsdon, which would it be?"

Mary stared at Brandon, her smile faded a little and the light in her dark blue eyes dimmed. _Just what on earth was going on here? What was with all these highly personal inquiries?_ Her beloved little sister, she knew, did not take well to private questions such as these. Her protective older-sisterly instincts now aroused, she drew her chair a little closer to Elizabeth's, as if she would shield her sister from this courtier who was slowly but gradually turning from a pleasant visitor to a clever and cunning interrogator.

Elizabeth, on her part, was surprisingly composed, as if she had long been expecting an "interrogation" such as this and had prepared accordingly for it. Without considering, without a moment's hesitation, she replied, "I believe that it would be Hunsdon, Your Grace."

"Hunsdon?"

"Yes, Your Grace, Hunsdon. As enjoyable and as exciting and as marvellous I find the life of the court to be, I have to confess that I, like my sister, have sorely missed the solemnity and peaceful order of Hunsdon House."

"It seems to me, Lady Mary, Lady Elizabeth, that that is proof of your personal attachments to Hunsdon. Both of you have become thoroughly and completely accustomed to the manor and the countryside, have grown to love it wholeheartedly as your personal haven and habitat, and hence would – sooner or later – be plagued by a sense of nostalgia if you were separated from them for extended periods of time."

"Yes, Your Grace, I think that would be the case," Mary said, almost glad that Brandon was now addressing both of them instead of only her sister. _At least my Elizabeth is no longer a subject of his scrutiny…_

As Brandon spoke, however, there was a sort of smile that Elizabeth fancied she understood: he must be supposing her to have grown tired of the constant hustle and bustle of court life, and longing to return to the quiet and uneventful life of Hunsdon.

Truth be known, she actually was.

She had missed – almost painfully – the grand, lofty mansion with all its elegant royal and guest apartments, music chambers, and the gallery filled with exquisite landscapes and portraits. She had missed taking part in the beautiful and serene world of nature that Hunsdon ruled – jumping over streams, watching the willows shimmering in the breeze, listening to the wrens calling to one another among the branches and the cattle lowing distant fields, and taking naps in the cool dark shade of trees.

Oh, other palaces could boast of being far loftier, far grander, and having more beauties of nature than Hunsdon, of course, but nothing could ever replace Hunsdon in Elizabeth's heart. For it was at Hunsdon where she was raised, where she shared a life with the older sister who was always so kind and so loving to her and whom she loved as a mother, where she actually felt completely and utterly safe…protected…from _him._

Elizabeth would have blushed at having been found out by a man whom she barely knew, but she did not.

She silently blessed her sister, her governesses and her tutors for having sharpened her wits and rendered her nerves steady, because she could now come up with a logical answer at a moment's notice. Keeping her voice completely calm and confident, she said, "Each and everyone of His Majesty's residences is a home and a school to me, Your Grace, for they all individually offer me a chance to be taught about the world, and to acquire the necessary knowledge and mandatory skills that I need so that I may conduct myself in the proper manner befitting my status as His Majesty's daughter. So far, I have found that each and every one of them has their own splendours to delight in, their own pleasures to enjoy, and their own stores of wisdom to partake of. But I would confess, Your Grace, to having a partiality to Hunsdon. It is, after all, where I was raised, where I was taught to read and write, and to sing and play and dance. It is the place where I have spent the vast majority of my babyhood. I trust that you would agree with me, Your Grace, that it is perfectly natural that I – over the years – have developed a passion for Hunsdon and for the countryside. To say that I have grown to love it wholeheartedly as my personal haven and habitat is nothing but the truth, and the truth in every sense of the word."

"Both my sister and I have a passionate love for the countryside, Your Grace," said Mary, who could keep silent no more, and was anxious to distract Brandon's unwanted attentions away from Elizabeth. Her sister might not show it, but Mary knew well that conversation such as this not only made her intensely uncomfortable, but also took a toll on her spirits, making her drained and exhausted. It was becoming increasingly obvious that Brandon's visit was more than a courtesy visit, one with an ulterior motive. "We delight in the beauties of nature as much as we do jewels and adornments. We love to pick and bring flowers into our rooms. We make crowns and necklaces from daisies. When I kiss my sister goodnight," she turned to Elizabeth, the beautiful sisterly smile on her face, as if to assure her little sister that there was nothing to fear or be nervous of, as she was with her, "I often find meadowsweet or buttercups on her pillow where they have fallen from her hair."

_These two Princesses do have a genuine love of the country,_ Brandon mused to himself. _Picking flowers, bringing them indoors, plaiting them into circlets or tying them into garlands…the typical behaviour of country-people…none of the other ladies of the court would even think about doing that… _"The King would not be pleased to learn that his daughters have grown to love being all on their own, and that they do not really need the court or even him."

"I beg your pardon, Your Grace?"

Brandon shook his head, as if he had been asleep for a moment. "Oh, nothing, Lady Mary. I was thinking about some things…"

TO BE CONTINUED…

* * *

Note: Hello, everyone, nice to see you all again, and no, I am not dead yet. Again, please tell me what you all think and always know that suggestions are forever welcome. A zillion thanks! Until next time…


	11. Chapter 11

"A lady of the court," the old woman remarked, taking in the velvet cloak and the hint of the rich gown at the front opening.

The young woman – little more than a girl, actually – laid a shiny gold coin on the table. "That's for your silence," she said flatly, surprisingly calm and controlled for someone consulting powers that were said to animate from the Devil himself.

The old woman laughed. "I will not be of much use to you, if I am silent, milady."

"I need help."

"Want someone to love you? Want someone dead? Want to bear a baby…or clear your womb of one?" the old woman scanned the much younger one with eyes as young and as blue as the Aegean, which contrasted almost shockingly against her weathered, wrinkled face. A knowing half-smile revealed a mouthful of teeth that were astonishingly white and even.

"The second one, ma'am."

"You have a thorn in your side, then."

The young woman pulled up a stool and sat down, a smile on her own cherry lips at the thought of the world divided so simply into love, death, childbirth and miscarriage. "Not in my side, Madam, but in my master's."

The old woman gave another laugh, the laugh of a woman who was only too experienced in matters such as these. "As ever. So, who is the poor, unfortunate little soul that your master wants cold in the ground?"

This time the young woman had to take a breath, as if steadying herself for some considerable physical and mental effort. "It is…it is…a child."

At once the old woman was more interested. "_A child?_ Your master wishes _a child_ dead?"

"A child who sees too much, a child who knows too much, a child so full of wit and cunning that she would be a threat to be reckoned with when she blooms into womanhood, ma'am."

"Ah, I see. So your master intends to nip her in the bud, before she could become an even bigger – and hence harder to remove – thorn in his flesh?"

The young woman nodded. "But my master not only desires her death, he wishes that her spirit would also be powerless to take vengeance against him."

The old woman raised a ghostly-white eyebrow. "Do elaborate, milady."

The young woman turned left and right, back and front, as if she were a cat about to consume a bowl of forbidden cream, and checking to make sure that no one could catch it in the act and punish it for its utter audacity. Then she leaned forward, as closely as she dared, to the older woman and whispered the task that her master required of her in full, vivid detail. There was no other alternative for her apart from whispering – her very own head could be placed on the block if anyone else were to overhear her, and she was not prepared to take any risks at all, though chances of her being eavesdropped in this remote, lonely place were highly unlikely, if not impossible.

The old woman was silent and unmoving for several moments after the much-younger woman was done. When she finally spoke, it was with an intensity that made the young woman stare at her in wonder. "To perform a feat of that magnitude, I would need to be in close proximity. You had better take me to her, milady, if you want a job well done."

"That's not possible," was the instant reply. "She's very closely guarded."

The old woman gave a short, mocking laugh. "You won't believe the houses that I have got in and out."

"I am sorry, ma'am, but it is impossible for you to see her."

"Then we can take a chance. I will give you a drink; it will do what your master wants."

The young woman nodded eagerly but she held up a hand. "But what if something goes wrong? What if the child's soul is not sent straight to the afterlife?"

The young woman stared at her, quite baffled. "What then?"

"You will unleash a curse, an utter abomination," she said simply. "Soul-lore is a complex and mysterious branch of magic, quite possibly the most unpredictable one of all, but there is one little thing which all of us who study the power and passages of souls can be perfectly, absolutely, utterly certain of. And that would be that souls who had been denied a place in the afterlife – be it in the lights of Heaven or be it in the fires of Hell – create the angriest, most wrathful of ghosts. They will completely and wholly forget who they had been in life. They will lose all senses of compassion and mercy. They will haunt and torment the very people that they know, friends and foes alike, till they go mad and kill themselves to escape the hopelessness and the despair. And this is exactly what would happen to the child if something unexpected happens, for age is no factor at all when it comes to magic. If something goes wrong and the child is denied entry into Heaven or Hell, then, no matter how much of a pure and innocent little Angel it had been in life, it will turn into a cruel and merciless demon that will never rest until you – and God-knows-how-many others – are all cold in your graves. Do you really have the stomach for that, milady?"

The young woman shook her head, her face now very white. "My God, _no_," she said, thinking of what would happen to her and hers if anyone knew that she had helped to slip a young innocent Princess a potion that could turn her into a terrifying evil spirit if anything went wrong with it.

She rose to her feet and turned away from the table to look out of the window at the cold grey river. When she finally turned around to face the old woman, she looked absolutely calm but also as white as a winding sheet.

"Give me the drink. My master can be the one to choose whether to slip that child the drink or not."

The old woman rose from her stool and waddled towards the back of the room. "That'll be fifty pounds."

The young woman said nothing to the fee. In fact, she was only surprised that this ancient, all-seeing creature had not asked for more, given that supernatural services such as these must definitely be as priceless as they are dangerous. She counted and put the gold coins down on the greasy table in silence. The old woman snatched them up with one quick movement. "It's not this you need fear," she said suddenly.

The young woman was halfway to the door but she turned back. "What do you mean, ma'am?"

"It's not the drink but the noose you should fear."

The young woman felt a chilly shiver, as if the grey mist from the river had just crept all over the skin of her back. It was as if, for the first time ever, she remembered that this was a Christian land that was always alert for witchcraft and devilry, and that it is death to be proved as a witch: death by drowning in the ducking stool, or strangling by the blacksmith at the village crossroads. Women such as this old, knowing crone were not permitted their magical arts in England today; they are named as forbidden. Come to think of it, _how_ exactly did this necromancer manage to survive to this remarkably old age, when others were being strangled or drowned or decapitated for being capable of feats that were utterly insignificant compared to those that she was reputed for? "What do you mean, ma'am?"

She shook her head, as if she had been asleep for a moment. "I? Nothing. If it means something to you, then take it to heart. If it means nothing, it means nothing. Let it go."

The young woman paused for a moment in case she would say anything more, and when she was silent she opened the door and slipped out.

The master was waiting, arms folded. When she came out he tucked his hand under her elbow in silence and they hurried down the slippery green steps to the gently rocking boat. In silence they made the longer journey home, the boatman rowing against the current. When he put them off at the palace landing stage she said urgently to him, "Two things you should know: one is that if something goes wrong, this drink will transform her into a monstrous dark spirit who would haunt and torment each and everyone of us ceaselessly till we succumb to madness and kill ourselves out of despair."

He nodded, as if she was telling him something of a most ordinary nature. "And the other thing?"

"The other thing the old woman said is that we should not fear the drink but fear the noose."

"What sort of noose?"

"She did not say."

"The hangman's noose?"

She shrugged.

"We are courtiers," he said simply. "When you spend your life in the shadow of the throne you are always afraid of nooses, flames, and axes. Let's get this through. Let's get that drink down her and see what happens. God knows, you would not gain anything if you risk nothing."

* * *

"I saw a curious thing in the garden a few days back, Lady Elizabeth."

"In which garden?" she asked. "And what is it, Your Grace?"

"The summer garden," Brandon replied very quietly. "I saw a father and a daughter walking side by side and reading a book."

"Not a father and a daughter," she said, understanding instantly what this was all about, and as to where the direction of this "interrogation" was taking. "Allow me to say that your judgment was probably flawed at that time, Your Grace, for it was not a father and a daughter. That was my confessor, Father Bors, and I, walking and reading together."

"Forgive me if this is offensive in any way, Lady Elizabeth, but you and your confessor did look like _a father_ and _a daughter_," Brandon said flatly, apparently deciding to embark on plain, common honesty than beating about the bush with vivacious wit. After all, the game of wit and cunning was an taxing one, which Brandon had lost all desire to play a long time ago, and least of all with a little girl as hauntingly sad and as heartbreakingly beautiful as this Princess, whom he had ruined forever in his wild folly. "From where I was standing. You looked like a father and a daughter having a lesson together."

Elizabeth's serene, almost indifferent expression did not falter in the least, and in that absolute control Brandon saw at once that she was a consummate verbal warrior now steadying herself for battle, and that the tutors who had often sang praises of her nerves and her knowledge had spoke nothing but the truth. Mary looked as if she wished to say something to divert him, but Elizabeth gave her a warm glance that seemed to say: "It is all right, Sister, I can handle this", and the older Princess sat silent.

"Well, Your Grace," the little Boleyn Princess said neutrally. "Who can say how they appear to others?"

_If the King had seen you and Bors that day, as I had seen you, Princess, he would have tortured Bors to death…_ "Who indeed? But, Lady Elizabeth, this can be dangerous, _extremely dangerous_."

"I am afraid I do not understand you, Your Grace," Elizabeth said. "How can studying together with my confessor be dangerous? As God is our witness, both Father Bors and I are innocent of any plot or scheme, and we are both loyal, obedient, and dutiful subjects to His Majesty the King. How might we offend? How can this be dangerous?"

"His Majesty the King does not look kindly to competition, Lady Elizabeth," Brandon replied simply.

"Competition? What competition?"

"The competition for your love and your favours, Lady Elizabeth."

Elizabeth tried to laugh, but it did not come out well. "Your Grace, forgive me for being rude, but this is utterly ridiculous. His Majesty the King is my father, the man who gave me life. Father Joseph Bors is my confessor, the man to whom I confess my sins and through which I communicate with His Almighty's Grace. As such, I owe – rightfully and naturally so – both of them two different sorts of love. I love His Majesty with the pure and natural love that a daughter would her father, and I love Father Bors with the sacred and trusting love that I owe him as a sister and daughter of Christ. What competition is there?"

"With all due respect, Lady Elizabeth, when it comes to His Majesty, you appear to be…_afraid._ It is, as you yourself have said, the greatest of privileges to be one of His Majesty's intimates, and it is a universally-acknowledged truth that to bask in his love and his favour is the truest pleasure that can be had. I myself and several others can testify to this. And yet it is the talk of the court that, as unlike your sister as can be, you have responded to the King's kindness and generosity with fear."

Mary's rosy colour drained from her cheeks, leaving her looking pale and deeply uneasy. Elizabeth, on contrary, was quiet for a long moment before responding with shocking calmness. "I am not afraid of His Majesty's love and favour, Your Grace; I am in awe of them."

Brandon considered this for a long moment before responding. "Awe? Really? But…please forgive my offensive bluntness, Lady Elizabeth, for I have been watching. You always seem to be intensely uncomfortable in His Majesty's presence, and are only slightly at ease whenever someone else ensures that you two are not alone together. Even then, however, one can tell that you still look drawn and afraid. You also seem to be always finding excuses not to be in his presence," he took a breath, as if steadying himself for some tremendous feat, and pretended not to notice Mary's increasingly alarmed and reproachful glance on him. "Once, I even saw you duck behind a statue when you saw him walking in your way, and I saw that your face had drained even paler than the white marble which the statue was built of, and you looked as if you hardly dared to breathe. It was only after you realised that His Majesty had gone off a long distance did you come out of your hiding place, and give a little sigh of relief as the colour slowly returned to your cheeks and lips. I am afraid, Lady Elizabeth, that I cannot, in any good sense, view that as awe instead of fear."

Elizabeth shrugged, her rosebud of a mouth twitching a bit, as she let her careful guard down for the first time before some apart from her dearest, most beloved older sister. Perhaps it was Brandon's honest assessment of the situation between her and her biological father and her confessor that allowed her to slip, but slip she did. When she replied, her voice was soft but sure, although she could not look Brandon in the eyes as she spoke.

"Perhaps not everyone believes that the favour and adoration of an all-powerful monarch is something to be celebrated. Perhaps for some it is…to be feared, or even despised. I know this to be the truth, and nothing but the truth, which I am bound by my sworn natural duty as a God-fearing Christian to tell."

Brandon was taken aback. The statement was so fatally dangerous, and yet also so appallingly true. He turned to Mary, who was utterly silent, the smile now completely gone from her lips, and her beautiful blue eyes soft with unspeakable sadness at what was yet another display of her precious sister's ungodly fear of their simultaneously terrifying and lovable father.

_Well, I did ask for the truth, and now I got it, though it is something that I never, ever wanted to hear…_

"You do not believe that His Majesty's love is something to be celebrated, my Lady Elizabeth?" Brandon kept his voice calm and causal. He wanted a true answer, not a reaction. _Little Princess, I know that you have suffered much because of him but, as God is my witness, the fault does not lie with him and him alone. And…I cannot say that you are wrong about his love being a most dangerous treasure, but…the truth is that he genuinely wants to get to know you again. He wants you to know that, despite everything, despite anything, he takes a warm paternal pride in you, and he genuinely loves and cares for you, as much as he does your sister or even your brother. Is it really too much to ask for you to give him another chance, and open up your heart to him again…?_

"It does not matter what I believe, Your Grace. As His Majesty's daughter and subject, it is my God-given duty to be loyal to him, to obey him, and to please him in all things. Please assure him that, if there had been any slights or offences on my part, it has been most unknowingly, most unintentionally done, and it would not happen again. Please also convey to him my deepest, most sincere apologies for my wrongs, as well as my assurances that I would be perfectly happy and willing to do whatever he wishes me to do. I place myself and my talents at his disposal. All he has to do is to simply give the order."

It was a careful answer, and a most brilliant one. Princess Elizabeth did not answer the question of what she did or did not believe. She avoided it completely, giving the expected reply that a loyal, dutiful, and obedient daughter would to a father who had been accustomed to his will being done in all things since the earliest days of his youth.

Brandon nodded and smiled, assuring Elizabeth that he would convey her "heartfelt" apologies to the King, and that he himself would be looking forward to seeing her bond with her father and display her undoubtedly astonishing wits and talents before the court.

When the door shut behind him, however, the courtier's smile vanished from his face completely.

As he went to find Knivert to discuss what was now being called the Elizabeth problem, one thought rang aloud in his troubled mind ceaselessly, as if it were a supernatural curse sent by Providence to punish him for the innocent blood that utterly stained his hands: _God in Heaven, what have I done? What have I done? Oh, what have I done…?_

* * *

He opened the door to his daughters' room first. The hinges let out a long, high-pitched squeal despite of his attempts to be as quiet as a mouse. The unexpected sound woke Susan Clarencieux and Katherine Ashley, both of whom shared the task of sleeping beside the Princesses, due to their status as their mistresses' most trusted confidants as well as the heads of their household. The two women, visions of sleepiness in their voluminous nightgown and beribboned bonnets, took in the profile of King Henry and, as the lightning bolt of recognition struck them between the eyes, sank into deep and respectful curtsies.

Henry nodded, and then placed a finger to his lips to warn them to be silent. He strode silently across the room to the canopied bed in which his daughters slept. Carefully, he pulled back the gossamer bed-curtains and peered inside, to be greeted by a vision of such pure, angelic beauty that for a moment he could breathe.

Mary's beautiful chestnut hair fanned out on her pillow, giving her an ethereal, otherworldly appearance. Her porcelain skin shone translucent and perfect. Her full, soft-looking lips were curled in a smile that meant sweet, pleasant dreams. Elizabeth, on the other hand, was sleeping like a child; her rosy cheek was smoothing across the pillow in a way that was most endearing to the beholder, one dainty white hand was curled near her smiling rosebud mouth, and her copper-crimson hair, loosened and brushed for sleep, was shocking against the white of the pillow and the sheets.

_Mary has fully and completely bloomed into womanhood now, and would soon be married and have a family of her own. I would not need to worry much about her now. But whatever am I going to do with Elizabeth…?_

For a long moment Henry considered them both, this ravishing young woman and this bright, exquisite little girl, both of whom had been born of his desperate all-consuming passion for their mothers, and both of whom he had declared illegitimate – and hence unable to inherit his crown and his throne – due to their being of the utterly inferior sex. Then, with the charming, rueful Tudor smile on his lips, he bent down, kissed them both on the forehead, and whispered into Elizabeth's ear: "You are my daughter, and I _will_ have your love and your tenderness, for I love you as much as I do your siblings." Indeed, she was so _like_ him there could be disputing that she was his daughter, although there were those who had cast doubts on that, in view of what had been proven against Anne later.

But Elizabeth had much of him and her mother in her, or rather, the very best of both of them. It was becoming increasingly apparent as he watched her grow. Not to mention those huge, black, brilliant eyes…he could never forget those dark mysterious inviting eyes, was cursed never to forget them…their enchantment had been the one of the like of which he had never felt…

Had Anne really betrayed him with all those men? He had to believe it. Yet doubts tortured him still. Would he never be free of Anne Boleyn?

But Anne was no more. It was her daughter that was sleeping before him, a daughter whom he had deprived of a mother. With justification, of course; he had been absolutely right to act as he had. And that lack had been rectified in the form of his new wife, Barbara, whose love and tenderness towards her stepchildren was nothing short of delightful.

Yes, having lived a life where anything and everything he did was always right, and where his conscience had been disciplined to the extent that it could go blind, deaf or mute whenever he wished it to, it was as easy as can be for Henry to convince himself that he had not been a murderer and was every bit worthy of love from the child he had inflicted the greatest imaginable harm upon.

When the door shut, the smile faded from Elizabeth's lips, and her eyes, as dark and as mysterious as the deepest night, snapped wide-open.

* * *

When he opened the door, it surprised him that there was no guard springing to his feet, but across the room he could see the shadowy figure of a woman. She sat with her back to the door near the fireplace hearth. Henry could not make out her face because it was turned, but he could see that her gown and her headdress were black. _Lady Bryan?_ He thought. _Of course it must be. Who else could it possibly be? Barbara, Mary and Bessy are all asleep._ It must be Lady Bryan, always immaculate in her dark velvet gowns, with never a hair or any detail of dress out of place, always so respectfully composed and self-controlled, always the first to rise at dawn and the last to sleep at dusk – an aspect that Henry admired most about this experienced and dutiful governess. Yes, it was a characteristic that was mandatory for his precious son's governess to possess.

"That will be all, gentlemen. Good night," he said, leaning back out into the hall.

When he looked back into his son's chamber, the figure still had not moved. She must not have heard him come in. _Now that's strange,_ he mused. _Lady Bryan is usually so sharp, so alert. I wager anything that she has eyes that could shame a hawk and ears that could even hear grass grow. So why has she not noticed me yet?_ Dismissing the musings with the excuse that old age was probably finally catching up with the royal governess, he closed the door and then walked briskly across the room.

"How is my son, Lady Bryan?"

As he muttered the nightly question, the figure turned to him. It was only then, in the silver light of the moon, that he could see that the woman before him was not Lady Bryan.

"How in the Devil did you get in here?" he raged. "Guard!" Henry sprang to his feet and reached for his dagger.

"Your Majesty, sir, if I might explain…"

The woman stood before him. He could see clearly now, in the light from the moon, that she was not a woman but a girl.

Long, lavishly brushed auburn-red hair that tumbled down to a waist so slender that two arms could have encircled it. Full, lush cherry lips. Huge, wide eyes of the darkest shade of summer-green. With a jolt, Henry recognized the girl whom he had been madly infatuated with at first sight, the girl who had ensnared him by giving an outrageous display of immodesty by flashing her thighs and letting her hair down in public.

"Who are you?"

"Katherine Howard, Your Majesty," she replied and then curtsied properly. "Now, if you would be kind enough to let me explain…"

"Papa! Papa, is that you?"

England's darling, Prince Edward Tudor, tore back the priceless bed-curtains with the carelessness of an indulged child and bolted from the bed in the long white, billowing nightgown. He leapt eagerly into his father's arms. With the smile of the proud, indulgent father on his lips, Henry held him and kissed him, forgetting the presence of the strange young girl who stood before them.

"I see that you have already met Lady Howard," Edward said. "I am so glad, Papa. She is extremely nice. As nice as Mary and Beth are. She tells me stories and plays games with me and sings to me like they do. Tonight she told me a story and when I asked her, she even stayed with me until I fell asleep. I have trouble falling asleep sometimes, Papa, and she really was so kind." After the long strings of words had tumbled from his mouth, his son yawned and then began to rub his eyes. Henry looked back at the girl.

"So it is Lady Howard, is it?"

"Lady Katherine Howard, at Your Majesty's service," she replied, and lowered her head again. "You see, sir, Lady Bryan has taken ill – seriously ill, and hence had to be sent away for the Prince's safety and for her personal recuperation. My Lord Hertford has appointed me to be the Prince's governess until she has fully regained her health."

Her voice was as soft and as sweet as water tinkling into a mountain pool, enchanting without any effort. When she raised her head again, she was smiling. It was the impish smile of a mischievous girl, and with her lips parted, he could see that her teeth were perfect, and seemed to glow like pearls in the darkness. It was the strangest sensation because the moment that she smiled, it changed her entire appearance. She went from possessing the graceful elegance of an aristocratic gentlewoman to the alluring sensuality of a temptress accomplished in all the arts of seduction. Her gown was his shade of Tudor-green, not black as he had first thought, and it was cut straight across her chest at such a low point that her full, firm breasts swelled beneath a ribbon of white lace. Yes, she was an extremely beautiful young creature, with a powerful voluptuous quality about her that he had never seen before in a woman. His first impression of her being a rich, ripe plum ready for the picking had been true after all…

All of this passed in no more than a few brief moments after he had called for his guards. The room was now filled with them, their swords all poised. Edward Seymour too was standing with his dagger readied. In one of the smaller doorways, three bewildered nurses stood in white cotton sleeping gowns and caps with their candles in their hands. Prince Edward looked up at him, then at the guards, his exquisite blue eyes wide with wonder.

"What is the matter, Papa? Has something happened?"

Henry looked at his guards, then back at Katherine Howard as though he was trying to make up his mind.

"It is all right. Everyone may return to bed. There has just been a small misunderstanding."

The nurses muttered something between themselves and one advanced to the little boy to lead him back to bed. But Edward ran the other way, towards Katherine.

"May I kiss you good night, Lady Howard?"

"I would be honoured if you would, Your Grace," she replied. After he kissed Katherine, and then his father, Edward surrendered to the waiting nurses. Then the guards retired. Henry did not see the wink that Lord Hertford gave Katherine Howard as he lingered for a moment at the door, turned and then departed.

"I am terribly sorry, Your Majesty, to have caused such a disturbance."

"It appears that my son would have me play the fool in this matter, Lady Howard, not you," he said, as he warmed his hands by the fire. "I believe that it is I who owe you an apology."

"That is not necessary, Your Majesty."

"Your presence in this room surprised me. I…thought you were someone else."

"May I add, sir, at the risk of seeming forward, that I wish I had been that someone else you so hoped to see."

Katherine Howard cast a seductive glance at him as she said it, and then just as he might have taken offense, she began to laugh. It was a sweet, silvery laugh like the tinkling of bells, and the sensuality and the impishly charming smile reappeared. Though he tried to avert his gaze, he could not help but watch her enchantingly beautiful breasts heave beneath the constraints of the Tudor-green gown.

_What breasts…two soft mounds…surely full of warmth and bounce…?_

* * *

"Have you decided what you shall wear to dine with His Majesty?" Kat asked. "If I might suggest, sweeting, the new moiré silk, or the gossamer, both are most splendid." Confident that her suggestion would be heeded, she did not wait for a reply. She padded with quick, meaningful steps, back to one of the trunks that lay wide open. This trunk, like all the others in the room, was full to bursting with assortments of priceless silks, rich furs, gaily embroidered petticoats, gorgeous gowns, and stylish French hoods trimmed with gold lace and set with pearls and precious stones.

Yes, it could be said that King Henry, in his sudden quest to bond with his daughters, was being far more than generous.

_It has to be perfect, rich, elegant. I can afford no mistake in this…_she brushed her slim tapered fingers across her pretty white throat. Her father's confiscating her dark velvet gowns and strict order that under no circumstances – except in the occasion of mourning – was she to wear sober colours clearly meant that her usual simple and modest fashion would definitely not do. So…what would? What kind of style would her father approve then of her? How should she dress and adorn herself, so that no one, not even her father – that most whimsical, most particular, most fastidious of Kings – could find it himself to disapprove or breath a word of reproach about her? Then, it struck her like a bolt of lightning. "I think I shall wear the green gossamer gown, along with the green hood, the green slippers, and the emerald girdle and earrings. His Majesty the King likes green best, after all."

Kat laid the chosen gown across the bed, near the stockings and underskirt, then smoothed out each article with her aged yet skilful hands. Then she opened the jewellery chest, picked out the selected jewels, and went on to draw out the Tudor-green French hood from one of the trunks. The elements of her little mistress' costume now in place, Kat took up a comb from the table by the bed. It was a beautiful thing, craved from silver, with the finest teeth imaginable and a handle inlaid with glittering mother-of-pearl – a comb fit for a Princess. With firm, even strokes, the middle-aged governess began to untangle the partially drying tendrils of Elizabeth's thick, beautiful auburn-red hair.

When it was nearly dry, Elizabeth stood. She could put it off no longer. She must dress. It was an elaborate ritual of camouflage that she detested. First, she was covered in a long-sleeved, silken white shift set with seed pearls, followed by elaborate underskirts. Then her legs were slipped into stockings which, elastic and smooth though they may be, still clung to her like a second skin. And finally, her gown. It was, out of all the beautiful new gowns that her gentle and benevolent stepmother had presented to her, her favourite – Tudor-green gossamer embroidered with white satin roses, with a shimmer of silver glittering amidst the pearly sleeves. Then a girdle was slipped around her waist, a jealously exquisite treasure made of finely wrought gold, and set with emeralds of the darkest shade of green.

Her hair followed. The silky copper-crimson waves were smoothed back away from the angelic little face so that the high brow could be set off to full advantage by its bare state, and the hair tumbled down to the waist like a shiny waterfall, and the chosen headdress – a handsome, crescent-shaped Tudor-green hood set with priceless lace and rare, sparkling diamonds – was drawn on. Her earlobes felt the weight of gold and emerald eardrops. At once the little girl was transformed into an exquisite picture of regal royalty. She stood still as her gown was brushed, her girdle adjusted so that it fell becomingly low over her waist, and the earrings re-set so that they seemed to dance in her ears. Then she was sprayed with her favourite perfume – lily of the valley. Gown, jewels and slippers; they all must be perfect.

When the dressing ritual was complete, Kat Ashley stepped back and studied Elizabeth as though she were a painting. She held the point of her chin between two fingers, her plucked brows fused in a frown. "If you are not certain about this, child, we can send word to His Majesty that you are unwell, and hence must stay away for the safety of his health and that of others."

The tender concern of the middle-aged woman calmed the edges of her own dark fear. She looked up at her governess, the plump body, the tired lined skin of her neck, and her eyes, deep and sincere. Elizabeth smiled.

"It will be all right, Kat. Everything is going to be fine. You shall see. It is just only a simple supper. What could possibly happen?"

She spoke with conviction, but her words masked a fear greater than she could admit, even to herself. No one – save only Mary, and even then it was only to a certain extent – knew the true depths of what it cost her to smile, to stand before their father and not go corpse-faced with terror, or run at lightning speed for her very life. Yes, apart from the older sister whom she loved as a mother, and whom she would trust with her very own immortal soul, no one knew that she had to pretend to ease, pretend to confidence, pretend to grace before the man who had given her life, and yet so cruelly and so ruthlessly destroyed it before it had the chance to properly begin.

Dearest God, of course she was frightened. She was, beneath the courtier's mask, a desperately frightened and lost little child, haunted by the shadows of the Tower, of the scaffold, and the fear from the unpredictability of what tomorrow would bring. Her mother had been disgraced beyond all redemption and had died a death befitting the lowest of criminals, and her father was a madman who could, at a mere whim, strip her and her beloved sister of all the splendours and the pleasures that they now enjoyed, and have their beautiful necks hacked in two based on some trumped-up evidence of a non-existent yet treasonous crime, which his network of spies and agents would unfailingly provide for him if he wished them both dead.

Yes, she had every right to be haunted by shadows, every right to be lost, and especially every right to be incomprehensibly frightened.

But she knew perfectly well what she had to do.

She had to amuse and flatter and enchant the King, to make him think that she thought of him as the most wonderful being in the universe, and that he was the center of her world. She had to seem at ease where she was not, assume confidence where she was afraid, and give the appearance of serenity when her mind was sorely troubled. He might be her father, but only in blood; her eyes had been opened to the darkness of his soul, and she feared him above all things because of what she had seen.

But Elizabeth will never, never breathe a word of it or betray the truth depths of her feelings.

After all, to do so would be equivalent to signing her own death warrant.

She studied her reflection in the burnished silver mirror carefully.

As a person who did not feel that she was beautiful, or really even believed that she was beautiful, she thought – not the first time – that she looked utterly ridiculous, being overdressed and over-adorned, when the reality was that all others would have been stunned into speechless silence by the vision of beauty that she had been transformed into.

Indeed, dressed in the fabulous green-and-white gown, with priceless gems sparkling on her hood and in her ears and around her waist, and with her rich red hair loose and rippling like a waterfall, Elizabeth looked every inch a Princess, a true Tudor Princess, a Princess of pure radiant ethereal beauty. And the miracle of miracles to all outsiders was that she had never been conscious of it at all, and always deemed praises to her looks as nothing more than mere flattery. But that was the way of Princess Elizabeth Tudor. The grass is always greener in someone else's pasture, and the mirror always casts a better reflection in someone else's bedchambers.

She just hoped, desperately hoped, that her utterly fastidious father would be pleased…

There was a knock at the door, in the rhythm that meant "Tudor". "Beth? Beth, may I come in?"

"Yes, Mary."

Mary took the measure of her sister with one of her clear blue-eyed sweeps and smiled her warm, tender smile, radiating full approval. Their father would definitely be pleased – more than pleased, perhaps – to see her looking so beautiful and so grown-up, though there was a tiny part of her that thought that her sister had looked a thousand times prettier with her copper hair unadorned and dressed in the simple, modest dark velvet gowns that she invariably favoured. But…who was she to argue with what her father thought was the best style and sense of fashion for her sister?

Elizabeth, on her part, gave a smile of genuine pleasure as she studied Mary carefully. Her older sister had also been bathed and perfumed, and her chestnut hair brushed to a glorious shine, rippling almost to the floor in a thick, soft stream, as if proclaiming to the world that England's first legitimate Princess had been a virgin Princess long enough, and it was time that she was wedded and bedded. She was dressed in a magnificent gown of burgundy-red silk, with under-sleeves of cloth-of-silver, a low square neckline trimmed with pearls, and a sleek girdle of gold and rubies around her slender waist. A delicate gold chain set with little seed pearls encircled her swanlike neck, and precious stones of black diamond and ruby sparkled darkly on her lily-white fingers. Red and black, it seemed, were the colours that flattered the Princess Mary the most, just like how green and white set off the Princess Elizabeth's colouring and looks to fullest advantage.

However, Elizabeth's pleasure gave way to confusion and slight nausea as she scrutinised her sister thoroughly, though she was careful not to let it show on her face. It was not that the peacock finery that her sister was arrayed in had paled her into insignificance; it was that it seemed a little too…too…_much._

Yes, it was a little too much.

Both she and her sister might be as young and pretty and graceful as ever, but it seemed to Elizabeth that they also looked gaudy, tasteless, and overdressed. They did not look the least bit like their usual proper, stately selves.

By God, what was it with their father deliberately dressing them – especially her – up in all this nauseating finery? Why could he not just let them dress up however they wished to? She truly could not find any fault in her and her sister's senses of fashion. It had been a tremendously great shock to her when she learnt that her father had not only confiscated, but also burnt all of the modest black-and-white gowns that made up the vast majority of her wardrobe, and had even given orders that, without his direct permission, she was not to order or wear any sober colours at all.

Just what exactly was her father _up to?_ Why on earth was something as trivial as dressing simply and modestly a crime to him now? Was he trying to insinuate something here?

Elizabeth inwardly sighed. She had never been sure of her father, King Henry. Gone were the days where she was a silly, ignorant, thoughtless little girl who thought of her father as the most wonderful being in the universe. Gone were the times where her greatest grief was that she did not get to see him very often, and who, happily unconscious of rank, dashed into his arms to be swung about and carried around in his strong muscular arms. That part of her had been killed from the moment her mother, her uncle, and several other men had been beheaded for crimes which, she was sure, was just an excuse for a spoiled, selfish child to get rid of a toy that he had tired of. The only thing that she could be certain of was that his temperament was as unpredictable as the weather itself, and that he could take a rage that turns him scarlet. Something that pleases him in the morning can anger him at supper, and this was one of the many aspects of her father that Elizabeth feared the most.

In general, she preferred not to consider him unless it was absolutely necessary for her so.

Oh, what she would give to be left at peace with those whom she could truly love and trust…

* * *

Hello, everyone. I am back. By now, you all are probably sick of apologies, but I can swear on my soul that I have been busy with my examinations, and my muses are SO NOT HELPING MATTERS. My motto is: "If I don't feel it, I can't do it! Again, PLEASE REVIEW AND TELL ME WHAT YOU ALL THINK! AND REMEMBER THAT SUGGESTIONS ARE ETERNALLY APPRECIATED! Thanks! Until Next Time...


	12. Chapter 12

_Evening…_

As if in a dream that she could not wake up from even she tried her hardest to, Princess Elizabeth glided down the marble staircase beside Princess Mary, her hand in her older sister's larger, more skilful one, and her onyx-black eyes simultaneously seeing everything and yet not seeing anything. From the bottom of her heart, she prayed that her madman of a father would be pleased with her dressed and adorned such. From the depths of her soul, she hoped that no one would sense that her heart was pounding with such force and at such a pace that it could have been used for a war drum of ancient times. Clearly, this was no Princess delighted with attending yet another one of her father's balls, where there would be feasting, dancing, and omnipresent flattery and admiration, but an exceptionally clever and observant child who knew that, once again, she had to put on appearances for the sake of survival itself.

_Was this how you felt like, Mother, when you knew that you had the greatest and yet most dangerous prize of all in your grasp? When you knew that your throne and your very life were in the gravest of dangers? When you knew that…that…that…you were going to die?_

**_When she stepped out of the Tower and raised her hand to the sun for the last time, Anne Boleyn was wearing a long, ermine-trimmed white satin robe that flowed out gracefully behind her. With each step, a scarlet satin skirt peeped through its folds. And coiled like a sleek black snake speared with diamond-tipped pins, her hair was pinned high to bare the nape of her neck._**

In a twilight of half-sleeping and half-waking, Elizabeth recalled words of a letter that she had been forced to burn though she wished to God that she did not have to, a letter which, despite existing only now in her memory, she was effortlessly able to recite it word for word, as it had been the very last gift of love and affection from the woman who had granted her the priceless gift of the flesh.

_My darling child,_

_Since it has pleased His Majesty the King to have you far from me even in the last days of my life, I write to you these words which, I wish with every inch of my soul and being to God, that I could have said to your beloved face. I do not know when or if you will ever receive this letter, but I am perfectly sure that, by the time you do, you would have learnt about what has happened to me and, as such, I would spare you the details of what I am experiencing now._

**_As she made her way to the Tower Green, escorted by her female attendants, guards, and Master Kingston, she showed no sign of fear or sorrow. Her eyes – her most bewitching, most unforgettable feature – were clear, dry, and bright, and her steps never faltered. The constant crying and praying before the altar had thoroughly cleansed her heart, her mind and her soul of any fears, leaving her perfectly calm for the day of her death. She was a woman fully ready to meet her fate, knowing that she had been betrayed by everyone who had profited from her rising to the highest heights, and that the little circle of men who truly loved her for who she genuinely was – her older brother and their friends – had died just the day before._**

**_At the foot of the scaffold she hesitated. Master Kingston held out his hand to help her up the steps, deep pity evident in his dark eyes for the young woman who, he was sure, was only guilty of the "crime" of being unable to give the most spoiled, selfish monarch in Christendom what he wanted most of all from her: a son. He could not save her, of course, nothing and no one could save her now, but if she needed his support to face her death, he would most definitely grant her that. It was the least that he could do for such a tragic and pitiful Queen._**

**_But what she did next made him realise that it was not fear that stayed her._**

**_"Master Kingston," she spoke, her sensually musical voice loud and clear, for she wanted everyone to hear her. "Please commend me to His Majesty, and tell him that he has ever been constant in advancing me; from a private gentlewoman he made me a Marquess, from a Marquess he made me a Queen, and now that he has no greater honour to bestow upon me, he gives my innocence the Crown of Martyrdom."_**

_It breaks my very heart and my very soul just to put these words down on paper, and the knowledge that I would never ever see you again in this life and watch you grow is far, far more than I can possibly bear. You are still so young, so vulnerable, with so much more to learn, and I wonder if you will even remember me, but there are some things that you must know. Undoubtedly, you would have heard all sorts of rumours and stories about me; that I was an evil witch who had cast a spell on the King to force him to put aside his true Queen to make me his wife, that I was a harlot so gross that I took four lovers – amongst them my own brother – right under my husband's nose, and that I was a woman of such dark ambitions that I plotted to kill the King so that I may take his crown and his specter. _

_I know that there is no reason, nor cause, nor evidence that can be provided for you to absolutely believe what I say, my darling, but as God is my witness, I have never offended the King in anyway. It is true that I did not always treat him with the politeness and respect that I show have, considering how high he has raised me to be, but I was never unfaithful to your father, and I would never ever have plotted to kill him. I loved your father with all my heart, and I love him still. I was also no witch. I have never ever, as they would surely say, invoked spirits and cast spells, or tried potions or herbs, or consulted witches to conceive, for I have a care to my own immortal soul, just like any other God-fearing Christian woman._

_**Then she gathered up her skirts and ascended the thirteen steps.**_

_**Yes, Anne Boleyn had ever been popular, had never been beloved, and was hated by many, but not even her bitterest foes can deny her incomparable courage. After all, what woman could boast of still being able to carry herself as if greatness was within, despite having fallen from being Queen of England to the lowest of criminals? And what woman could demonstrate the grace and the detachment that this one did now, gliding up those steps of doom as if it were merely a choreographed move in a masque, and going on to dance her part in another place?**_

_But I pray you, darling, to bear no ill will towards your father or any other person who speaks evil of me. For – I do not expect you to understand this, darling, but – sometimes, innocent people have to die. And those who have the power of life and death have to make harsh choices. His Majesty, your father, must have his reasons for sending me to my death, feeling that he is doing the right thing. He cannot be blamed. If it is possible, I wish for you to reconcile yourself with your sister, the Princess Mary, who loves you much, and has suffered much. If Mistress Seymour becomes Queen, do not grieve for me, but look upon her as your true mother, and be obedient and dutiful to her and your father. Also remember that, when you are grown-up, to be submissive to those who are your superiors, and to be kind to all those who are under you. Please do not forget this, my darling, for it is vital that you make many friends and few foes; it is never wise for one to have enemies at court. If I had learnt this priceless lesson sooner, perhaps I would still be with you, but we must not dwell on that now._

_**At the top of the steps she unclasped her robe and let it fall backwards into the arms of Meg Lee, and everyone saw then that over her scarlet satin kirtle she wore a simple gown of black velvet with a deep, square bodice cut so low that the beautiful round curves of her snow-white shoulders showed. She was as confidently, exotically beautiful as she had been when she arrived from France, all those years ago, and was set on by her ruthless, ambitious family to tempt the King as the Devil would an innocent for his soul.**_

_**Head held high, as imperious as the Queen she still believed herself to be, she went to meet the executioner. He was a tall, sturdy man, dressed all in black and wearing a half-mask. **_

_**Gallantly, the French executioner knelt and kissed her hand and they spoke softly for a few moments in French. Her voice was astonishingly cheerful and lilting for a woman who was about to be killed for crimes which she did not commit, and her onyx-black eyes flashed with a beguiling sparkle. She reached up behind her neck and unclasped her infamous, favourite necklace – a rope of creamy, lustrous pearls, with a large gleaming gold "B" pendant from which three teardrop pearls dangled – and pressed it into his gloved hand. Then, with apparent regret, he began to instruct her.**_

_I am not afraid of death, my darling, for I am resolved to go to the scaffold with all the grace and dignity that I am capable of. Perhaps it is death that makes one look back with such clarity on the errors of a life. My darling…my sweet, beautiful Elizabeth…as much as it shames me to the ground to confess this; your mother is a sinner. Not a criminal, perhaps, but definitely a sinner. Your mother has, in the wild folly of her youth, committed the sins of pride and of vanity. I took the place of a Queen who has always done the very best that she could for her husband and for England, and had caused her untold pain and suffering. If I had been given a second chance, I swear that I would have been so arrogant and unforgiving, and I would have been much kinder to Queen Katherine and her daughter. Then perhaps God would not have seen fit to punish me with the fate that lies before me now._

_**After she had made her parting speech, she was to kneel just there – at the center of the scaffold – and look straight ahead. Unlike the usual English executions – so clumsy, so messy, with the big, cumbersome axe – there was no need for a block.**_

_**"Good Christian people," Anne began to speak. "I am come to die according to the law, and therefore I will speak nothing against it and accuse no man. I pray God to save the King and send him long to reign after you, for a kinder or more merciful Prince there was never, and he was ever a good and gentle Sovereign Lord to me…"**_

_Let that be a lesson to you, my darling: never let yourself suffer from the faults of your own mother. Do not trust. Do not love. In this world of lies, deceits and betrayals, you will often find people to be undeserving of your love and your trust, though they may hide under consummate demeanours of friendship and loyalty. Be very wary, Elizabeth. Do not let yourself be fooled by such masquerades, for they can be dangerous, extremely dangerous – as I have found out for myself. But if you must love, do so moderately. If you must trust, do so only after it has been thoroughly and utterly proven that the recipient of such a precious commodity fully deserves it._

_**"I submit to death with good will, asking pardon of the entire world, and yield myself humbly to the will of the King. And if any person will meddle with my cause, I require them to judge best. Thus, I take my leave of the world, and heartily desire you all to pray for me."**_

_Even if everyone else forgets, my darling, I want you to remember me for what I truly was: a woman who wanted the love of a monarch more than she wanted to share his crown and his power. But the most important thing of all is…_

_**With swift grace, she turned and sank to her knees, taking a moment to arrange the drape of her skirts more becomingly, and folded her hands placidly in her lap, letting the deep, hanging cuffs of her fashionable sleeves fall over them.**_

_I love you, my darling, my sweet, precious darling. _

_It did not matter at all to me that you were born a girl instead of a boy, because I fell for you from the very moment I laid eyes on you. Remember that if nothing else, I will always love you._

_**Meg Lee tottered towards her, nearly blind with tears, clutching a white linen cloth – a blindfold. But Anne waved it away and stared straight ahead; she would face death as bravely as she had faced life.**_

_And remember that my death is not your fault, my darling. It is not your fault. It is not your fault and it never would be._

_**"To Jesus, I commend my soul."**_

_Be brave, be strong, and be true, my darling. Live not only for those who might come, in time, to love and care for you for who you truly are, but also for me. I pray for you to have the strength and the courage to carry on without me._

_I do not know whether or not you will ever sit on the throne, but it does not really matter. For I have no doubt that, even if you never become Queen of England, you will definitely grow to be a good and dutiful woman, a model woman who live to a good old age, and die safely in your bed, at peace with the world, and beloved by all who knew you._

_I know this, for you are my darling, my beloved child, my daughter._

_My Elizabeth. _

_And know that a mother who wanted nothing more than to be with you always will be forever watching you fondly, wherever she might be._

_Goodbye, my darling._

_I love you, my darling. I will always love you._

**_A swift slash of silver steel ended the life of a woman who had changed the fate of a nation forever._**

**_There was a great gout of blood…a glossy dark head bouncing on the platform…_**

Elizabeth did not know whether she had cried out or screamed, but she must have, because the next thing she knew was that she was staring into a face as radiant and as beautiful as the fullest moon, with round rosy cheeks, and large sapphire-blue eyes that were currently sparkling with worry and absolute concern: her older sister, Mary, the closest thing she had to a mother.

_Oh, God in Heaven, I have utterly failed as an actor long before the show has begun. Whatever am I going to do now?_

"Beth, is everything all right? I heard you suddenly cry out."

TO BE CONTINUED…

* * *

Hello, everyone, I am back! Again, please review and tell me what you all think, and remember that suggestions will forever be appreciated! Thanks! Until Next Time...

Author's Note: Just in case anyone was wondering why I had suddenly brought in Anne Boleyn, well...I felt a need for her to be in the story, given that Elizabeth's difficult and complicated relationship with her father was, unarguably, because of this utterly remarkable woman, whose death did nothing to alter the transformation that she had brought upon all of England. Also, the fact that Queen Elizabeth choose never to marry was, undoubtedly, because of _both_ of her parents, and I felt that it was unfair for me to leave one dramatic "influence" out, given that Elizabeth is also a major character here (takes _two_ hands to clap, does it not?) As compensation for so wickedly leaving this chapter the way it is, I promise that there would definitely be more Mary/Philip scenes in store, and I present a tiny glimpse of the future chapters: ghosts from the past will be showing up, _real ghosts of the FORMER QUEENS OF ENGLAND._

After all, even Death has no power over the bonds of the heart, right?


	13. Chapter 13

Elizabeth's first impulse was like that of any other child who had been caught out in a betraying moment of genuine distress or unspeakable fear: to give a little lie, a false assurance that everything was all right. But then her wits intervened and bade her to think better of it: ever since she had "judged" her sister to be completely and utterly worthy of those precious commodities known as faith and trust, she had opened up her heart, her mind, and even her very own soul to her. Yes, those who say that the Princess Elizabeth confided most – if not all – of her deepest fears and her darkest secrets in her older sister speak nothing but the truth. As such, how was it possible for her to lie to her sister? To lie to the person to whom she had opened up every inch of her soul and her being?

So she settled for saying the one thing that was neither a complete lie nor a complete truth: "I was carried away by my fears, Sister. I am afraid of what may happen."

There, that was the best she could do. She could hardly tell her sister she had been reminiscing the last, utterly horrific moments of her mother's life, and that tragic, heartbreaking letter of love and affection that she had been forced to burn after reading it only once. How could she, when she knew perfectly well that her mother had been the very woman who had caused her sister and her sister's mother untold pain and suffering? While her mother was not guilty of the crimes for which she was beheaded, she was definitely guilty of breaking up what had been a happy and blissful marriage of twenty years, causing a good woman to die in illness and heartbreak, and subject that woman's daughter to abuse, humiliation, and even forcing her to wait upon her half-sister as a lowly servant.

As such, despite the unspeakable cost, Elizabeth gave the appearance of having forgotten her mother completely, and never mentioned her at all. She could not bear to spoil the happiness and the faithful, trusting love that she and her older sister had come to share. However, in her heart of hearts, she always included her mother in her daily prayers, for she knew that prayers did not have to be spoken to be heard. She also swore a private oath that she would forever take to heart the lessons of her mother's execution and her mother's letter, and that, come what may, she would _never ever_ allow her father to be a part of her heart, and that she would _never trust him_ or _put any faith in him_ to do anything right. He had proven himself to be utterly incapable of it, caring for nothing and no one but himself.

Though it was as if it had been engraved on her skin on her knife, she had tried to forget.

Forget that she had watched her mother climb the scaffold steps with a grace and a detachment that she knew she could never learn.

Forget how she had unclasped that ermine-trimmed robe, and unclasped her favourite pearl necklace with the gold "B" for Boleyn so that the doomed swanlike neck was bare.

Forget the incomparable calmness and quiet dignity with which she had spoken, as if she had made full peace with the world and was content to go, not knowing that the daughter whom she was going to leave behind was actually there amongst the crowds, and had to watch against her will.

Forget how she had denied that blindfold, choosing to face death with the courage befitting a true warrior, and had commended her soul to Jesus Christ.

Forget that great gout of warm, red blood, and how that glossy night-black head bounced on the platform…

But she could not. She just could not. It was thoroughly beyond her.

It was a memory which she was sure that she would never, never ever forget, one that would haunt her until the end of her days.

And the feat of having to face the terror that was her father, and entertain him and his court of lies and deceit had caused the fears induced by the memory of that execution and the letter to flare to life in her.

Like a schoolgirl who had been caught in an act of mischievous obedience, she hung her head, keeping her eyes on the ground, waiting for either a reproach for "ungrounded" fears or a quick assurance that everything was going to be all right, and that she should not let her imagination get the better of her.

Neither of the expected responses came.

She ventured a look up, and saw – to her surprise – that Mary was looking at her with intense sympathy, and most unexpectedly…_understanding._

Mary understood.

Yes, she understood exactly how it must be for her sister.

She, as their father's oldest child and once-upon-a-time heir, had served a long and hard apprenticeship in learning the powers of deceit and appearances. She knew how much it cost – both physically and mentally – for one to pretend to ease, pretend to grace, to put on a consummate show of glamour and assurance simply for the benefit of strangers who would curry favour with her when she was beloved by their King, and then forget about her with complete indifference when their King turns away from her. And if this could still drain and exhaust her even after she had had decades of extensive, painstaking practice, then how can it be any better for her beloved, precious Elizabeth, who was still only a child? The poor little girl, who had been forced to grow up too quickly with only few moments of rest, must have been sick with fright, and weary to the soul at having to be a consummate actress again.

After all, loathe though she was to admit it, their father was the classic epitome of a difficult, formidable and frightening man. Just like Elizabeth had pointed out, one never knew exactly how his mind or his heart worked, and one never knew how he could be offended. As such, he is a supremely dangerous man, all the more so since he is a monarch who wielded absolute power and is mad enough to believe that he speaks for God Himself on earth. All it took was one little lie, or one little whisper, and it would be the cold axe and the grave.

Yes, her sister's fear of their father was not without reasonable cause or logical foundation. Who should know it better than her, her who had once been heir to the crown of England, but was now nothing more than a royal bastard who is thoroughly dependent on the unreliable favour of the most fickle-minded ruler in Europe?

Without hesitation, without a moment's pause, Mary determinedly led Elizabeth back into their apartments, where she made her sit in a chair by the fire, as if hoping that the heat of the crackling flames would chase the chill of the fear and the endless worries away from her sister, and sent for a cup of hot mead and some little cakes.

"Would you like to have a cup of mead yourself, _milady_?" Susan Clarencieux asked, her face a picture of concern and wonder.

"No, thank you, Susan. Mrs. Ashley, would you please fetch me my hairbrush and my lice-comb?"

"Of course, _milady_," said Kat, who looked no less concerned about Elizabeth than Susan was about Mary. After all, the middle-aged governess had grown to love her charge, the young Boleyn Princess, as if she were her own flesh and blood, as her own daughter. Elizabeth unhappy made her unhappy as well. "Would that be all?" she added, hoping…praying desperately that the older half-Spanish Princess would say: "Oh, right, there is one more thing. Please also send word to His Majesty that my sister and I would be unable to attend tonight's fete, as my sister is severely unwell and needs to rest."

Much to her disappointment, she received a "Yes. That would be all, Mrs. Ashley."

_Looks like my poor little lady would not be spared this torment then…_

But then, impulse made Kat study Mary intensely, and she realised that those serene, innocently beautiful features were set in a genuine, unmistakable mold of sad resignation, as if to say: "I am sorry. I am sorrier than I can ever say, but Beth cannot keep saying no. I do not like it anymore than she does, but we are Princesses of the Blood, and hence whatever our own feelings, we have to be on show, at least for a while. Everyone knows that His Majesty's patience and manners are stretched to the limits these days because of her, and if they were to fail him, then she would be the gravest of dangers. For her personal safety and peace, she has to least show that she is making an effort to bond with him, even if she does not want to at all. This moment's reprieve is really the best, the very best that I could possibly give her."

With a sigh, Kat turned away and went to fetch the brush and the comb. She understood it, and it made perfect, irrefutable sense, but it did not mean that she had to like it.

When she had received everything she had asked for, Mary dismissed all the servants – even trustworthy Susan and reliable Kat – so that she and her sister were alone, then she placed the warm cup in Elizabeth's little hands.

"Drink it," she said gently. "Drink it, little sister, and relax. I am sure that it would do you a power of good. You are looking better already."

It was true: the glowing embers had put a warmth in Elizabeth's cheeks, and her skin had returned from the sickly pallor of a corpse to the beautiful ivory colouring of robust, youthful health.

Elizabeth did not speak, but she did give a small, sincere smile. Yes, her warm, tender older sister, the best surrogate mother she could have ever asked for, could always make her feel better, always make her smile even in the most difficult of situations. Obediently, she took a sip of the steaming mead, and started to feel the cold fade against the heat of the sweet liquid. She put a small cake into her mouth too.

"Relax, little sister, relax."

Then, as gently and as carefully as she could, Mary pulled the green French hood from Elizabeth's head, and shook out the beautiful Tudor-copper hair.

"Mary? Sister?"

"Just relax, little sister. Just relax."

The half-Spanish Tudor Princess took the lice-comb, went to stand behind her sister, and started to comb through the glorious reddish-gold hair, a lock at a time. She combed her tenderly, lovingly, as a devoted horseman would handle the mane of his favourite mare. Elizabeth gave a little sigh of pleasure at her sister's immaculate grooming, and popped another cake into her mouth.

"Any lice? Any flaw?" she asked, suddenly alert, as if recalling the unpleasant fact that she still had to put on a show later.

"None yet," her sister reassured her, as intimate as the most accomplished of hairdressers. "But do not worry about it. Do not even think of it. Just relax, little sister, just relax."

Mary's rich soothing voice and gentle words seemed like a magic spell of some kind, an enchantment of positive, irresistible power, because Elizabeth – a girl who always found letting go of fears and worries even for a moment to be the hardest task of all – actually obeyed, without question, without hesitation, as if she were obeying God Himself.

As her sister combed and combed, and later changed the lice-comb for the hairbrush, which she used with equal slowness and sweetness as she did the comb, Elizabeth closed her eyes and luxuriated in the grooming, the comforting pleasure of which was enhanced by the hot honey-sweet mead and the delicious little cakes, which she enjoyed with all the thorough slowness of a connoisseur.

When the food and the drink were finished, the fear seemed to have passed, for Elizabeth was her serene, peacefully calm self again.

"He might be difficult, and he might be formidable," Mary said quietly, the warm sisterly smile on her lips. "But he loves us, Beth. He loves you and me as much and as dearly as he does Edward. And he is not as monstrous as you believe him to be. I know all these. All he wants is to get to know you better, to understand you more, and so why not give him a chance? He would be overjoyed if you were to open up to him, if not just a little?"

At this, Elizabeth fell into deep and silent thought for a moment, and then she said, "Before a husband, before a father, before even a mortal man, he is a King, Sister. A King who is all-powerful and with an unshakeable belief that he is the very Voice of God on earth. A King who thinks that his whims are holy and that his desires are God's wishes, God's manifestations. Can I really trust such a King with my heart? Can anyone, for that matter, trust such a King with something as precious and incomparable as a heart?"

Suddenly, despite the fire still crackling like a witch in a fit of unholy glee, it was cold in the room, and Mary felt an icy shiver down her spine. How could she answer such a question?

Then, something struck her.

She went to stand in front of her sister, crouched down so that she and Elizabeth could see each other face-to-face, and took hold of her shoulders in a firm yet gentle grip.

"I want you to listen to me very carefully, Elizabeth," at this, the young Boleyn Princess' ears perked up, for her sister only addressed her by her full name when she was being utterly serious, and she was now speaking to her in that strong yet gentle manner which she used when she was about to teach her a vital lesson of life. "Our father would never, _never ever_ wish you harm, or have you killed. He would _never ever_ wish any misfortune befalling you. This I know. This I promise you. I cannot deny that he, just as you have pointed out in the past, is a proud and arrogant man, and capable of great cruelty. But I know for sure that he would _never ever_ harm you or take your life. It is a mortal sin; Our Lord Himself has stated that no man could commit a worse sin than to cause the _death_ of _his own kin_, and one who has never ever done him any ill at that. He might think that he is God's Voice and the executor of God's Will on earth, but I believe that he knows otherwise deep in his heart, and that he has a care to his immortal soul just like any God-fearing Christian man. So trust me, Elizabeth: he will never ever kill you or wish you harm. His conscience would never stand for it. His country would not stand for it. _Nobody would stand for it._ It is an awful sin, _the most dreadful sin._ And it would lead anyone to a terrible judgment and an eternity in Hell. _An eternity,_ Elizabeth. Do you understand?"

Elizabeth understood. Her sister was referring to the two powers that were a million times greater than those of her father's: the power of divine retribution and the power of the people of England. Being a tyrant and a wife-killer was bad enough, but becoming a child-killer was, as her sister stated, definitely more than what the people could bear. And as certainly as the sun rising in the east, they would revolt, never resting until they had overthrown the King and his government, viewing the act of child-killing as the final proof that the King who had once been the Defender of the Faith and the light of his nation had become Satan on earth, and that their war against him would be a righteous and holy war, one with the very backing of God Himself. There was absolutely, utterly, thoroughly no way that their father would ever risk that happening. For who should know the power of rebellion better than him? _Him_ whose father had won his very crown and scepter through a _rebellion_?

As for divine retribution…well, no one knows for sure how much innocent blood had their father shed, and certainly there was no one who would have been willing to take on the burden of guilt which must be their father's. One can only wonder as to the multitude and intensity of the sins that he had to answer to God on the day of his judgment, but common sense told everyone that there was no way that the sin of killing his very own child would be amongst them. A tyrant, a monster and a madman though he might be, there was no way that he could kill his own daughter. _Never ever._ As Mary had pointed out, it was beyond even a man like him, him who – despite his mad pride and his vain selfishness – still had a care to his immortal soul. Especially now, where he was starting to lose out in the race with old age, and knew that soon he could no longer delay the inevitable, there was no way that he was going to increase his chances of being sent to Hell after death.

"I understand, Sister. Thank you. We should get going."

"Yes, we should."

With an increased confidence and restored serenity, Elizabeth rose to her feet. "But I will have a change of clothes first."

Mary raised a finely-plucked eyebrow. "But why, Beth?" she asked, taking in the fantastic gown of Tudor-green gossamer and white roses, the emeralds dancing in her ears and sparkling around her waist, and the diamonds glittering on the green French hood. "Surely there is no need for you do so. You look perfectly fine."

Elizabeth sighed. "There were people who saw you lead me back here, Sister_."_

Mary blinked, and then she understood: an excuse was needed.

Yes, in a court where secrets were almost impossible to be kept, and where every word spoken and every action made could become a matter of life and death, a reasonable excuse always had to be had.

It was vital for _survival_ itself.

"I think I would wear my cream gown. White is one of His Majesty's favourite colours, after all."

"I agree. Susan? Mrs. Ashley?"

"Yes, Your Grace?"

"Fetch my new hunting habit and my sister's cream gown and hood. We have decided to have a change of costumes. And bring us some hot water, that we may wash our faces. His Majesty likes us sweet-scented."

"Yes, milady."

Elizabeth gifted Mary with the strangest look after she had made the instructions that both of them would be changing their clothes, and that they needed hot water to wash in. Obviously, the water had been ordered for her sake, that she may wash in so that the heat would – hopefully – return her face to its normal state. "Sister_?"_

"Yes, Beth?"

"Why…why…why are you always so nice to me?"

Mary's answer was to smile that warm, loving smile, and crouch down and gather Elizabeth in a soft, sweet-smelling maternal embrace.

"Because you are my little sister, like my very own child, and I love you."

Elizabeth did not reply, but Mary understood when she felt Elizabeth try to return the hug by wrapping her arms around her.

"Do not be afraid, little sister," she whispered into Elizabeth's ear. "I am with you."

* * *

Author's Note:

Hello, ladies and gentlemen. I am back. A piece of good news would be: I have finished all my final examinations. Bad news is: my muses are still as inconsistent and as unpredictable as ever. As such, I have to confess that I seem to have lost faith in myself, in my writing abilities. Tell me honestly, ladies and gentlemen: do you think I should stop this story or put it up for adoption? I mean, I feel so guilty each time I am unable to update on a regular basis, and I know that it is extremely unfair to make each and everyone of you wait so long, but my muses are just born uncooperative, with minds of their own, and the trials of daily life keep rearing their ugly heads to make all kinds of trouble. In fact, I would say that this new chapter is a miracle itself, born of a sudden and thoroughly unexpected fit of enthusiasm. So, please tell me, ladies and gentlemen: should I or should I not keep going?

Again, please review and tell me what you all think, and remember that suggestions will always and forever be appreciated. Thanks…


	14. Chapter 14

To say that Katherine Howard was excruciatingly disappointed would have been the understatement of the millennium.

Oh yes, it would have been a classic understatement.

An _understatement_ in every sense of the word.

She could not believe that fate and destiny would be this cruel, this merciless towards her.

First her pride had been mortally wounded due to reality shattering the illusions that she had woven and had been absolutely certain of, and now she was condemned into fading into the shadows as though she, she who was God's bravest, wittiest, and most beautiful creation, was a _nobody_?

It was more than she could take.

Common sense would have told her that, given that she had never ever seen either or both of the Princesses for herself, and did not even have a portrait of them to consider, there was always a fair chance of her expectations falling into the pit of disappointment, especially since they had been founded purely on the grounds of imagination. And common sense would have made her realise that, though she might think herself to be the possessor of a great many admirable qualities that would – and should – make her the envy of all the others of her sex, she was still, at the end of the day, only one of the many ladies at court, and a rather minor one at that, if truth be told.

But for a girl who had been thought to think of nothing and no one but herself since she was a child of five, common sense…well, quite naturally…went unheeded.

Indeed, the only times where Katherine Howard took note of common sense were when necessity demanded it. At other times, the pride that she had allowed to rule her life with a fist of iron compelled her to go deaf to it. Even if she could not make herself go completely deaf, there was still only one thing that she would say in response to this situation: _it is more than I could ever take!_

She had heard so much about the two of them. Mary Tudor, the beloved daughter of the King who had been put aside on the word of Anne Boleyn, her cousin. The Princess who had been humbled to dust, the mourning girl who had been forbidden to see her dying mother. Elizabeth Tudor, whose sex had been the most severe of disappointments to her son-obsessed father from the very moment she drew her first breath. The little Princess whose father turned away from her and denied her publicly as his daughter despite her mother's desperate pleas for mercy, the little girl who had to be told by others of her mother's tragic fate, and who had been cruelly condemned to live the rest of her life in the shadow of disgrace.

As such, Katherine had been expecting two figures of utter tragedy, since – though no faults of their own – each of them had been forced to endure trials that would have broken most women and children.

The picture she had painted of Mary Tudor was a prematurely-aged woman with a skinny body, a small head of thin, frizzy red hair, a low hoarse voice from ill health and constant cries of grief and despair, and a face made gaunt and grim by destroyed hopes and vanquished dreams: a snub nose, large wary eyes, and a mouth that was forever down-turned. A thoroughly careworn woman who had absolutely nothing to recommend herself, except a tolerable allowance that could be revoked at any time by her utterly undependable father, and an utterly laughable ability to pray as if she had sinned against the Holy Ghost itself, when everyone knew her to be as pure and innocent as the Virgin for whom she had been named.

The apparition she had conjured up of Elizabeth Tudor, on the other hand, was a child that was only a little more alive than a broken doll, being corpse-pale and thin, with dark, haunted eyes that are too large for her face, and a thin little voice that suggested that she was constantly close to breaking down in tears. A desperately lost, desperately frightened little child whose eyes blatantly betrayed her utter ignorance of what she should do, whose very air indicated that her future and her life itself were as uncertain as her father's favour, and with absolutely nothing of worth except her Tudor-red hair, which was attributed to "a stroke of _devilish_ luck" for a child whose parentage is in doubt.

Yes, such were the images that Katherine Howard had believed the two infamous Princesses of England to be, and she had been perfectly certain of acquiring a new boast about her accuracy being flawless once when she went to court and saw the two sisters for herself.

One hard lesson she had learnt through this: _anticipation only made the disappointment keener._

For what she saw were two individuals as different as day and night from the ones she had woven from the threads of a fanciful imagination.

Princess Mary Tudor was, though her peacock-rivaling vanity demanded that she die a thousand deaths of the most painful sort before she admitted it, one of the most beautiful women she had ever seen. Tall and stately, with a body fit for a Goddess of Love and Desire, she had a soft, full rounded face that was as innocent and beatific as the most devout novice on the verge of taking her vows, or a virginal saint tragically destined to die young, sweet, chaste_…pure._ A wealth of gorgeous chestnut hair tastefully streaked with copper and gold rippled even beyond her rounded hips, a dramatic contrast to her flawless alabaster skin and exquisite scarlet-red bow of a mouth. A straight long nose and chiseled cheekbones that were the despair of a master sculptor set off to advantage a pair of huge, wide eyes that glowed with a colour unlike any Katherine had ever seen before. Pure blue, untinted with grey or brown or black. As blue as a sapphire that enticed and promised. Sapphire eyes that were framed like portraits by thick, long ebony lashes that swept her rosy cheeks as if they were black crescents, and crowned by straight eyebrows of chestnut.

She did not walk, but glided, as a swan would on a still pool. Her voice was the voice of a Princess who had been born and bred to be – once upon a time – a great and mighty Queen for England: strong and sure when giving orders or conversing, yet as rich and sweet as a thrush when singing or entertaining. And while she had a tendency to favour gowns of sober colours and jewellery of dark hues, she dressed and adorned herself in a way that not only made her look stylish and seductive, but also did justice to the piety for which she was famed: the decent, modest cut of the dark-coloured gowns concealing yet enhancing her mouthwateringly voluptuous form, and the careful arraying of the pieces of rich, deep-hued jewellery simultaneously giving the impression of beguiling modesty and setting off her unique colouring to full advantage.

Yes, she possessed more than just beauty, grace and style, but a sheer presence that allowed her to dominate an entire hall of people without having to utter a single word. Hers was a charm that had been refined by hardship, perfected by tragedy, a grace that was made all the more ethereal by her having the look of a young girl who had seen all her hopes destroyed, and yet had learnt to live with it and had even accomplished the extraordinary feat of making the best out of her pitiful circumstances.

Lady Elizabeth Tudor – _Lady_, not _Princess_, her master had emphasised _that_ endlessly – was also a startling surprise. She was extremely young, only seven years old, yet she was imposing in her own right.

As impressive and as imposing as the sister who was old enough to be her mother, as some might say.

She had a heart-shaped face with strong, high cheekbones that tapered down to a pointed chin, and a rosebud mouth of pure cherubic perfection. Her eyes, the notorious Boleyn eyes that had led to the fate of a nation being changed forever, were her most striking feature, one that gave a new definition to the term "exotic": Huge and almond-shaped, with dark arched eyebrows and fantastic dark lashes that contrasted almost shockingly against her irises and her skin, they shone black, onyx-black, as black as the loveliest, most secretive of nights. From what she had heard, they could actually change colour depending on their mistress' mood: sometimes green, then purple. Her skin was just like her older sister's: as soft and pure as the finest cream, with just a gentle bloom of rosy colour in her cheeks and her mouth. Waves of soft, lustrous copper-crimson hair – the famous Tudor hair – tumbled sweetly to a tiny waist, a shiny waterfall that could take one's breath away. She was tall for her age, lithe-limbed and slim, and moved with a grace that made her seem as if she were a willow tree dancing with spring breezes. Her voice was like that of a nightingale's: haunting, musical, and pitched exactly to touch one's soul with the exquisite power of its modulation and harmony.

But there was also an indescribable charm of endearment about her, a kind of magic that made one as though just by looking at her could make his or her heart warm by the most delightful way. Katherine now understood what Charles Brandon, Francis Bryan, and numerous other courtiers meant by her radiance; she is tremendously engaging. Even the simplest of her actions made her exude a sort of vulnerable appeal. She was like a young animal that one cannot see without wanting to pet: like an orphan fawn, or a puppy with big, soulful eyes.

Yes, Lady Elizabeth was, undoubtedly, the prettiest and most charming child Katherine had ever seen. But she was also the saddest. It was not just that those beguiling black eyes were often soft with that wistful emotion that made one want to reach out and comfort her. A shroud of tender, innocent sorrow cloaked her just like the folds of her gowns did.

Her dress…now that was the part that thoroughly baffled Katherine Howard. She just could not understand why a girl who could – at anytime, anywhere – have her pick of the most beautiful gowns and the most exquisite jewels prefer to attire herself in a simple, modest way that made many a daring tongue suggest that she must be determined to live a life of celibacy, despite the fact that whether or not she could do so was not a matter for her to decide at all. Indeed, very rarely was Lady Elizabeth not seen in severe, sober-hued gowns of grey, black, white, and brown, and adorned by only the stylish French hood which was usually pushed back to show her priceless red hair, a beautifully jewelled crucifix that her sister had given her on her third birthday at her neck, and a book of hymns dangling at the end of a golden chain around her waist. Most ironically, it was a confirmed fact that those few occasions in which she appeared in bright, rich colours and fabulous jewels were entirely the work of her sister's persuasion, and her sister had been the very one whom everyone had originally blamed for being "a bad influence" on her in terms of behaviour and appearance.

Whatever the case, Katherine was forced to admit that she had been hopelessly wrong about the two Princesses, and that each of them was a rare, splendid specimen of the female sex in her own right. Where Elizabeth's was a beauty that invited touching, affection and protection, Mary was a majestic beauty that inspired awe, admiration and worship. Elizabeth was a little fairy from those fantastic tales that delighted all children, while Mary was a mythological Goddess in all her glory and majesty.

But…it did not make it any easier for her to swallow the pill of the knowledge of being thoroughly in the wrong.

And tonight, she was feeling sourer and more irritated than ever.

She had dressed for show: a new gown sewn of crimson damask, cut to the lowest possible point of her bosom that propriety would allow. The velvet yoke around her gown and her hood were of black velvet. The colours against her copper hair were boldly inappropriate, but her masters had been more than pleased with it, and she herself thought that she could not have made a better choice: many a male eye was on her, clearly appreciating the gown and its seductive contents. As expected, her heart swelled until it could burst her chest open with pride. Pride in her beauty, her charm, her desirability, and – most importantly – that she was a center of attention, as it should be.

Yes, ever since she came to court, Katherine Howard had expected to be much observed and much commented upon. It was natural for a vain, proud, willful girl who thought of herself as the fairest flower of the court. That many handsome young boys, all sons of good families, all wealthy in their own right, and all high in favour, had flirted with her, attempted to seduce her, and even offered sexual favours only served to fester her pride.

But she ceased to be a center of attention, of excitement and sensual pleasure when the two Princesses made their appearance in the Great Hall.

Completely ceased to be.

There was a pause of absolute, utter silence, in which one could have heard a feather fall, or the Angels gasp.

Everyone seemed to have lost their sense of speech as the two sisters glided towards their father and stepmother to greet them. It was not that it was the very first time that they were seeing them, and had not known them both to be such visions of exotic, ethereal beauty. No, it was the loveliness of the dramatic, almost razor-sharp contrast between them: in expression, in colouring, and in looks. As Brandon had found out for himself, the sight of them, standing side by side, was…incredible. _Absolutely incredible._ It was a kind of inexpressible charm that distinguished them from all the others, making even the most gracious, most beautifully-dressed ladies of the court pale into insignificance by comparison. Little wonder the sight of them always made Katherine seethe with jealousy, and try her best to deny their beauty, but as always, she failed miserably: upon being confronted with its full, magnetic impact, she could not help but be overwhelmed by the waves of the mortifying thought that she had not done them justice.

Mary was dressed in a hunting habit that was wonderfully becoming to her: on her dark, curly head was a handsome beaver hat with jaunty, dark blue feathers, and she wore a black velvet jacket with diamond clasps, and skirts of dark blue velvet, richly embroidered in silver. Around her swanlike neck was a necklace that had made many a lady catch her very breath at the wave of utter longing that had swept through her at the sight of it: moonstones and diamonds, inlayed in pure antique gold, glittering and twinkling like a star in the yellow light of flickering torches. The dark hues of her dress brought out the soft, creamy whiteness of her skin, the copper-shaded chestnut in her hair, and made her eyes shine bluer. Had she been armed with a bow and a quiver full of arrows, she would have looked every inch like Artemis, the Goddess of the Moon and of Wild Nature, having descended from Mount Olympus to Earth for yet another hunt. In this case, however, her prey was neither the stag nor the roebuck, but mortal men, and her arrows were not her usual arrows that were as soft as moonbeams and brought about painless death, but those of Eros, the God of Love: arrows that were tipped with gold and tailed with white dove feathers – sweetly poisoned arrows that infect man and woman alike with the most dangerous of all fevers, making them all succumb helplessly to a state that could be either more glorious than life or more miserable than death.

Elizabeth was, much to the astonishment and wonder of almost the entire court, dressed for both piety and grandeur: a gown of white silk damask, studded with pearls, and with the sleeves and the hem trimmed with the soft white ermine that had been one of her father's gifts. She wore it with a matching French hood of cloth-of-silver, set with priceless silver lace, and a veil of white gossamer trimmed with pearls cascading over her beautiful copper curls to her hips. But what was most captivating was the air of grace mingled with modest reserve that bore witness to the beauty of her soul. She was like a pristine, exquisite creation of the God of Sculptors, a Fairy Princess who had ventured from her mystical, otherworldly realms into the human world, not to cause mischief and mayhem as so many of her kind had delighted in, but to see, to learn and to explore with a sincerely open heart and a genuinely willing mind, making her all the more enchanting by her utter lack of naughtiness and desire to do harm.

Once the paralysing attack of the shock had passed, propriety again took hold of everyone's senses, and all the ladies and gentlemen either curtsied or bowed to the two beauties: they had to curtsey or bow to the Princess Mary low enough to indicate their respect to a Princess of the Blood Royal, and rise up before the Lady Elizabeth could take the credit since she is only a bastard of the King, and as always there were those who said that she is not his at all.

But then, Katherine noted that she did not seem to take note of whether any respect was shown to her or not. Her behaviour was that of a child many years her senior: she smiled her courtier's smile – a smile so gracious and so courteous that Katherine wondered how many times did she practice in front of a mirror, inclined her head as regally as her sister did, and met their gazes with an imperious yet gentle directness. If one were to look very, very carefully, however, one could discern the discomfort in her air, and how she seemed to draw ever closer to the sister who held her by the hand, as a shy child would draw to a loving mother for protection.

_It seems that I was quite right about her being a lost, frightened little child, after all._

Succumbing to a moment's impulse, Katherine gave Elizabeth a mischievous, knowing smile, as if they were not strangers but close allies, a pair of naughty schoolmates who love nothing better than to cause trouble, and even poked out her tongue at her as the little Boleyn-Tudor Princess went past her. She saw no harm in doing so, for the child was only six years old, and besides, she was her cousin from her mother's side. Then she heard the sound of a throat being cleared: the typical sound that indicated disapproval and demanded attention, and she looked up…into the dark, critical gaze of the Princess Mary.

The transformation was nothing short of magical: the soft, innocent, exquisite face that a master sculptor would have given to the Virgin was now the hard, stern, and intimidating countenance of the most formidable of Queens. She stared at her as a Goddess would stare at an impertinent sinner who had dared to defile her sacred shrine, unable to believe that she had actually done what she had done.

Instantly and naturally, Katherine lowered her gaze to the ground, cheeks burning with mortification; now looking every inch like a girl caught in an act of disobedience and had no choice but to await punishment.

It did not come.

For distraction came in the form of King Henry and Queen Barbara.

Her lovely face warm with the sweet smile that came to her as naturally as she breathed whenever she saw her stepchildren, Queen Barbara greeted them with a tenderness that was heartwarming to behold: giving each a warm hug and a loving kiss on both cheeks, and then scrutinising each of their faces thoroughly, as if checking to see if they were truly as well as they seemed to be.

Then it was King Henry's turn. As always, one had to wonder whether the deep fondness he demonstrated towards them was genuine or just for show, given his notorious treatment of them when his affection turned to spite, but it was still sweet and touching nonetheless: he gave each of them a hug, spoke with warm tenderness to them, and revealed that he had prepared presents for them – sugared plums and pieces of glided marchpane in his pockets for the little Lady Elizabeth, and a handsome-looking cheque and a large sapphire ring from his own finger for the Princess Mary. With a face made more beautiful by genuine approval, the Queen placed a dainty white hand over the King's callused, much larger one, and whispered something quietly in his ear, making him give a light chuckle. Clearly, they are a merry little family, which would be indeed as heartwarming as a blazing fireplace in the cold, bitter winter, if one did not recall the unforgettable fact that the father of the family – for all his smiles and his kindness – was a difficult and dangerous man, one insane enough to actually believe that he and God are of the same mind.

But that the King was a madman and that the world was governed by his whims did not matter, not in the least, to Katherine Howard. What mattered most was the utter lack of attention paid to her. She had been certain that this King, whose susceptibility to beautiful women was notorious, was attracted to her, and she knew that he had been stealing little glances at her as a man would a forbidden treasure. But the entry of the two Tudor sisters broke her spell: he did not seem to have eyes for anything else once they showed up. All his attention was focused on them, them whom he had declared bastards and Princesses no more, and whom he had generally neglected until recently. She would have laughed, but she could not, since the "insult" to her beauty was too great, and she knew that she should not, not in front of the court, where every eye would be on her the instant she does something outlandish.

It was then that she felt a firm hand on her sleeve. She looked up and saw the dark hair and long, thoughtful face of her master, Edward Seymour.

"Lord Hertford," she greeted, and would have curtsied had he not stopped her.

"What _is_ the matter with you?" he demanded in the hiss of a whisper, clearly annoyed. "You look as sour as a lemon."

"It is those two," she indicated the two Princesses. "They never fail to irritate me."

"Irritate you? How? As far as I know, they have never done anything wrong to you. Or…have they, without my knowledge?"

"They are everything that I would never be," she said simply, making Edward bite the inside of his mouth from laughing as realisation dawned on him.

"Oh, my dear Katherine, you are jealous of them, are you not?"

"Why should I not be, Lord Hertford?" Katherine demanded, though her voice was still as low as a whisper. Even in anger, she did not forget that there were things that cannot be spoken out loud in court, no matter how true they might be. This was, after all, a place where one wrong word could mean the Tower or the scaffold. "Why should I not be? What woman would not be? I had originally thought that they were plain and common, old before their times, good-for-nothing, unwanted and useless. But now I am forced to accept that they are the complete opposites of what I expected them to be, and that they have everything that young girls like me could possibly want, could possibly dream of. What girl, Lord Hertford, upon seeing them in all their rich jewels, their fancy gowns, and their beauty and their pride, would not be as jealous of them as can be?"

"Yes, perhaps. But don't forget: if everything goes according to our plans, then in only a matter of days, one of them would be cold in a grave, nothing more than a memory, while the other one…you can do as you like with the other one once you are in a position of power: banish her, imprison her, marry her off, send her to a nunnery…whatever. This I promise you. But first you have to be patient. Be patient. And take one step at a time so that you would not fall. So wipe that sour look off your face and smile. Look pretty, look pleasant, look agreeable. The King is always fond of easy and agreeable women. He does not like frowning, disagreeable women who look as though they are sucking on lemons, even if they are of unparalleled beauty. And for sure he would not be fond of you if you keep that frown on your exquisite face, my dear little Katherine. So smile and look fair and sweet."

At once Katherine smiled her beguilingly innocent, seductive smile, now slightly cheered as she saw the sense in her master's words. Edward scrutinised her intensely as a fastidious horse-dealer would a filly, and gave a nod of approval. "That's better. Much better. Now, keep that on no matter what happens. Whether or not the Princess Mary and the Lady Elizabeth are common or extraordinary, ugly or beautiful, desired or repulsed is not important. What is important is the work that you have to do. There is a part that you have to play to perfection, Katherine."

"Yes, Lord Hertford."

"And remember, Katherine: patience and modesty are the two virtues that the men of this court find most appealing in a woman. Even me."

"Yes, Lord Hertford."

* * *

The ritual involved in setting the royal table was intriguing, one far more intricate than any ever employed at Hunsdon, Hatfield, or any other nursery palace. First, a damask cloth embroidered with flowers was unfolded and spread in the most precise fashion over the grand oaken table. Then napkins sprinkled with sweet-smelling herbs were laid on the cloth, followed by gold plate and cutlery shining from immaculate polishing, goblets of Venetian glass glittering from thorough washing, loaves of hot, freshly-baked manchet bread and chased ewers of drink. Thanks to the "New Learning" that was introduced by Queen Barbara, the insufficient, almost pathetic ritual of dipping fingers into bowls of scented water and then wiping them on napkins had been abolished. Now, the finger bowls had been replaced with rich, pleasant-smelling soaps and large bowls of hot water for everyone to thoroughly wash their hands clean, followed by soft, warm fleecy towels with which for everyone to thoroughly wipe and dry their hands.

The dinner itself was fantastically well done. Thanks again to the "New Learning"; the cooks had done a magnificent job, a million times better compared to when they had been ignorant of the virtues of cleanliness. All kinds of meat and vegetables, excellently prepared in every imaginable way: raw, stewed, boiled and roasted, made up the menu. Fruits were served with a selection of soft and hard cheeses, and a great variety of wonderful drinks: mountain spring water, fruit juices, ices, sherbets and wines, all chilled with snow from the icehouses, such that everyone sang their praises. The hot food was served with a bit of steam; the pastries had the perfect browning to their crusts, and the cheeses had the proper bite to them. Undoubtedly, the most exquisite item of the feast was the sweetmeats: flowers and bouquets in marchpane, so pretty and so delicate that it was a true pity to break and eat them.

But it was neither the succulent food nor the wonderful drinks that proved to be the center of attention.

Most shockingly, it was Princess Elizabeth.

The Princess Elizabeth, always serene and ethereal, always sitting demurely next to her sister at the dinner table, answering only when spoken to and keeping silent when she was not, actually – without any prompting or encouragement from her sister or her stepmother – engaged her father in conversation before he even spoke to her. It was something so unexpected, and seemed so impossible, that it was a wonder that there was no uproar, and that the entire court was able to carry on eating well and drinking deep, as if the quietest, most soft-spoken member of the royal family starting a conversation with the fearsome, unpredictable head of the house was an everyday occurrence.

Elizabeth played her part beautifully, executing it with such light charm that one who had not seen her frightened and lost would actually believe that a magical alteration had taken place overnight, that she was no longer afraid of her father, and actually wanted to get to know him. She brought up topics of definite interest for them to chat about and discuss: Scripture and the classics, the historical works that she was currently studying, and even art and music. She picked the nicest morsels from the dishes on the table and put them on his plate. She was very much Elizabeth, Elizabeth in every turn of her head and her quiet, refined way of speaking and moving, but there was something about her determined charm that reminded one of her mother, who had tried her utmost to mask her fears when she realised that her husband had tired of her and was plotting to be rid of her.

And it was a heartbreaking sight to behold, especially to Mary, who had felt no sorrow and only a little pity at Anne Boleyn's disgrace and death, but had grown to love Anne Boleyn's pure and innocent daughter with all her heart. Barbara, seated next to her husband, also gave a little shrug of her shoulders and a small sigh of sadness. A child like that, so full of beauty and charm, so pure and so angelic, being forced into playing a difficult, tiring part that no one would be willing to play if they had a choice. With a knowing, sad glance of understanding at each other, stepmother and sister did whatever they could to make it easier for the little girl to play her part, to give her some assurance that she was not alone and never would be: both tried to participate in the conversation, though their success was repeatedly compromised by Henry, who obviously wanted the discussion to be only between him and the daughter whose love he was determined to win. Mary took the choicest cuts of meat and vegetables from her plate and placed them on her sister's, and saw to it that her sister's goblet was always full of her favourite drink. Barbara ensured that Elizabeth received extra helpings of her favourite dessert of candied fruits, and secretly gave orders to make sure that a hot drink and a warm fireplace would be ready for the little Princess when she and her sister retired for bed.

Henry, on his part – being always insensible of whatever he chose to ignore – was utterly delighted, grinning from ear to ear as he chatted with his engaging younger daughter. His daughter, his pretty clever tender-hearted little Bessy, had finally – as Knivert put it – _"seen the light",_ and he was determined to make the most of it, to show Bessy that his light was one that she would never regret seeing, an exquisitely beautiful light whose warmth and comfort she would never have cause to despise herself for relishing in. _Take that, Bors_; he thought triumphantly, his heart roaring like a lion that had conquered a new piece of territory by defeating a foe. _My Bessy has turned to me at last. My Bessy has tired of you and your dull, monotonous ways. My Bessy has turned to me, just as I know she would. My Bessy has learnt that a deep, true, unwavering fatherly love like mine is always the best._

Katherine, picking at her food so that she would not be seen as greedy, saw the mixture of pride and triumph on Henry's face, Elizabeth's determinedly bright, active and enchanting behaviour, and laughed to herself: _the daughter is a shameless, consummate little actress while the father has got to be the most deluded fool that has ever lived. Really, this family is a joke. A big, fat, stupid joke. I wonder why no one has died of laughing here yet…_

* * *

After everyone had eaten their fill, had their mouths and hands washed, and the cloths were drawn, the master and his minion engaged in a last-minute discussion of their own.

"I am sorry, Lord Hertford, but I am still compelled to ask this: you have already spiked the drink that the King is going to give her, have you not?"

"For the thirteenth time, child, yes! I have! Only a third of the potion for her tonight, just as the necromancer said."

"And another third for her tomorrow night."

"And the last third for her the night after tomorrow's. Then, all we have to do is sit and wait. In only a matter of days, the little Boleyn bastard will be no more, her memory nothing but a distant, feeble jest. Is that not what the necromancer said?"

"Yes, Lord Hertford. It is just…oh, it is too bad that we cannot administer the potion all at once, Lord Hertford. If only we could, then it would be a swift, easy, sharp job. It could be all over in just tonight. But I know that it cannot be."

"Yes, it is a pity. But as I have told you before, Katherine, patience is a most appealing virtue. It is one that always promises a handsome reward. So just wait. Just leave everything to me. And don't forget that it is time for you to get to work."

"Yes, Lord Hertford, I know." Katherine said, as cheerfully as a child who had been given a long-desired toy. She glanced towards the Queen, and saw that the King was now watching them. Carefully, indifferently, she turned her head a little away from Edward and withdrew slightly. It would not do to seem too engaged with him. She glanced under her eyelashes, and indeed the King was looking at her. He beckoned to her with a crook of his finger, and she stepped up to the royal chair as if she had been waiting all her life for this moment.

"Your Majesty?"

"I am saying that we should have some dancing. Will you partner the Princess Mary? The Queen tells me you are the best of her dancers."

Katherine flushed hot with pleasure, and wished with all her heart that her grandmother could see her now: being ordered to dance with the Princess by the King himself upon the recommendation of the Queen.

"Of course, Your Majesty." She curtsied beautifully, taking care to also cast her eyes down modestly since everyone was watching her, and put out a hand to the Princess Mary. Her dark, secretive heart hissed like an angry cat that had been outwitted by a clever mouse when she noted how Mary did not leap up to take it, and merely glided to the center of the hall to form the first line of the dance with her as if she were not much honoured by her partner. As ever, with Princesses who had been taught since childhood to guard their tongues and to behave properly at all times, there was nothing that Katherine Howard could specifically find to find fault with in Mary Tudor. It was the very air of her: the way she set herself slightly apart, the way with which she now carried herself, as if she, regretfully, cannot agree with the partner that her father had selected for her.

_Well, that's of no loss to me. It is not as if I came to court just to seek her approval…_Katherine mused with all the arrogance of a spoilt child, giving a slight toss of her flaming red head at that serene, beautiful face, and summoned the other ladies, who formed a line behind them. With a snap of the King's fingers, the musicians struck a chord, and the dance began.

She should have foreseen it, for any Princess would have been taught how to dance in the courtly world where dancing, singing, music, and poetry mattered more than anything else, but she felt the fire of her jealousy-induced irritation at this Spanish-Tudor Princess burn fiercer than ever as she realised what a wonderful dancer she was. Indeed, even the most severe of dancing teachers would give a genuine smile of approval at how the Princess Mary Tudor performed: her head held high, her eyes simultaneously giving the impression of being heavily-lidded and sparkling like priceless gems, her feet twinkling through the steps as if they were stars dancing in the night sky, so gracefully did they move, that they did not seem to touch the ground at all. It was the greatest of blows to the pride of a flirtatious girl who had been taught to revel in constant male attention, for Katherine was certain that – despite her best efforts to display the full effect of her beauty and her sensuality through the dance – more than half of the male attention in the room was completely focused on the Princess, whose rosy colour was rising along with the dance, making her seem more beautiful than she already was.

For a moment, for a moment only, Katherine wondered if she could seize Mary by the throat and throttle the life out of her.

It was too much for her.

Simply too much.

She cannot be a foil to someone else's performance, she just cannot be.

It was not in her nature, she just did not aspire to second place, even if the first place was claimed by one of the greatest Princesses of Christendom.

It was not only that, but also the overwhelming sense of inferiority that Mary made her feel just by dancing with her, cruelly reminding her that this Princess and her little bastard child of a sister were far better-educated than her, far more gracious than her, and despite their uncertain status might turn out to be more than she ever would be.

She felt – as clear as crystal – the razor-sharp sting of the unspeakable differences between her and these two Princesses, a scorpion-like sting that poisoned her with jealousy and spite. They have overshadowed her, they lived in fairytale palaces that she could only dream of seeing as a child, they have dresses and ornaments that made her go as green as a pea just to think about it. If she were ever to be draped in ermine, she knew that the one and only reason would be that she was beautiful and seductive, while those furs were theirs by right of birth, whether or not they were lovely and desirable. One was six years older than her, the other more than ten years her junior, and yet both sisters had always been ahead of her. While they delighted in gowns that grew fancier and fancier, reveled in the richest of jewels, had romantic ballads and pretty poems dedicated to their beauty, rewarded winners of tournaments, and translated Latin and Greek into English for the sole purpose of gratifying their pride in their wit and learning, she had to wheedle and pout like a silly child, and resort to the lowest tricks of a whore to get bolts of common, low-quality silk to make new gowns. She had to be content with the plain, pathetic jewellery that were her mother's deathbed gifts: a little chain of thin gold, and a set of simple gold bracelets. No one had ever written a single, solitary ballad about her, no one had ever drawn her likeness, and she had to be grateful for hand-copied from prayer books from a girl who lectured her all the time like the strictest of governesses.

All these long, wretched years, while she was powerless to do anything but learn demeaning tricks and to entertain shameless, loose-lived young men in her bed, this young woman and that little girl spent in worthless prayer and meaningless study, quietly foiling the plots of those who sought to bring them down again, attempting to consolidate their unsteady positions in their father's heart, and dazzling England with their beauty and wit.

Now she danced with her, the young woman whom they call the most beautiful and most devout in England, the young woman whose looks utterly contradict her nun-like serenity and peace, the young woman who commanded her father's reluctant adoration and the admiration of a nation. She could not look at her straight in the eye, though the Devil himself knows that she does not command her.

"You are Lady Katherine Howard, is it? A granddaughter of the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk?" Mary asked pleasantly, her voice as mellifluous as a siren, and her smile polite, though in those unearthly blue eyes was that faintest hint of dislike that had been there ever since she caught this mere maid-in-waiting audaciously making faces at her beloved little sister.

Yes, Princess Mary Tudor might seem as gentle and as harmless as a butterfly, but when it came to defending her loved ones, she would become a woman no less fierce and formidable than her father himself. She would move Heaven and Earth to protect them, to keep them from harm, especially when it concerned the sister who had – most unexpectedly – proved to be an utterly reliable ray of hope and sunshine to her in the darkest moments of her life.

Eustace Chapuys and Francis Bryan could testify to that: in years back, the court had been rife with tales of how they each suffered the humiliation of a public scolding by the older Spanish-Tudor Princess for giving offense to her sister. Eustace, who had desperately and consistently tried for years to turn his mistress against her sister, was eventually dealt with a devastating blow to his pride in the form of an ultimatum: cease with his poisonous yard-spinning, or be horsewhipped and dismissed forever from royal service. Francis Bryan, whom everyone knew to take an especial delight in making fun of ladies in a bawdy way, had tried once to make Elizabeth the butt of a joke, when she was welcomed back at court and restored once more in her father's favour. Mary, to whom he had done the exact same thing, had stepped in immediately before he could complete his nasty jest, and had herded her sister off like a devoted mother would her child, but not before giving Francis a tongue-lashing that no one had thought to be within her capacity, extempore before the entire court.

Neither man had dared to make the Princesses the subject of their "nonsense" ever again.

Yes, the message Mary had spread had been made perfectly clear: _You people thought to embarrass me and my sister in public. You thought that you could use us both in pawns in your games, the butts of your evil and insulting jokes, that you could shame us and triumph over us. But my sister and I are both Princesses of England, Princesses of the Blood, and we have endured trials that you all, in your smug little havens, can never dream of. We have learnt to trust each other with the entirety of our faith and our souls no matter what. We have sworn to stand together regardless of the circumstances. So you all need not think that we are afraid of you all, or that you could turn us against each other. I shall never stoop to do anything that a Princess of the Blood should not do. I shall never be petty, or spiteful, or quarrelsome. But if you challenge me, I shall defeat you. If you slight my sister or intend to turn me against her, her who had been God's greatest gift to me, then I shall teach you a lesson that you shall never forget._

"I am, Princess," Katherine replied, feeling the smile on her face stretched so hard that her mouth was drying with the effort.

"I have heard of Her Majesty the Queen speak of you as a beautiful and charming girl, always pleasant company to be with, and well-schooled in all the arts that become an attractive and accomplished woman," she said, "I see that much of what I have heard is true, but I daresay that you still require lessons in keeping your own counsel and pay the respect that is due to a Princess of the Blood." A sudden flame of colour in Katherine's cheeks betrayed her shame and anger at this reproach, a flush that was intensified by the realisation that, all the time, those blue eyes were taking in her scandalous gown, her provoking headdress, and the way she swayed her hips to ensure that she would be constantly watched with desire and admiration by the red-blooded men. She realised that this Princess, highly accomplished not only in book-learning but also in the ways of the world, was trying to read her, and she, dancing with her, was trying with every inch of her being to hide her resentful jealousy of her, her beauty, and her position. She was trying to look agreeable, while she felt her proud belly turn over with spite, especially when she saw how elegantly those rich skirts of blue velvet swished in tune to the music, hinting at the litheness of Mary's sensual, fertile form.

"I do not mean to be harsh, or rude, or to make you uncomfortable, Lady Howard, but here is a place where there is no room for mistakes. And appearances could mean anything, everything. Not all can be dismissed as mere escapades, or the wild follies of youth. All new courtiers must accept these rules, in entering this world; they abide by these lessons for the very purpose of survival."

"I understand, Princess. From the bottom of my heart, I apologise for any offense that I have dealt you or your sister the Lady Elizabeth with," she said. She swallowed in a dry throat. "Be assured that it would not happen again. And allow me to say that it is a true pleasure to be able to serve Her Majesty the Queen, and a more genuine one at being allowed to dance with you. As Our Lady is my witness, you are the finest dancer that I have ever been privileged to be partnered with, Princess."

"Thank you, Lady Howard. It is most kind of you to say that. I am sure that Her Majesty also finds it a true pleasure for you to be in her service as well. And it is the _Princess_ Elizabeth, Lady Howard. Not the Lady Elizabeth. The _Princess_ Elizabeth." Mary corrected gently, noting with well-concealed pleasure at the flicker of unmistakable surprise in Katherine Howard's emerald eyes as she said this. Her first two statements were of course the typical, rehearsed responses that a Princess would give to a compliment paid, but that last statement made regarding her sister's title – and hence status – was spoken with an underlining note of serious warning, as if to emphasise that, despite all the rumours and speculations as to Elizabeth's paternity, her sister was still an important personage in the eyes of the world, and also meant something supremely special to her, to the extent where she would not tolerate any disrespect towards her.

_Obviously this is another one who wonders as to why Beth and I are so dear to each other, when our mothers had been the bitterest of foes…_

"It has been long since I have reconciled myself to what has happened between my father, my mother, and the Lady Anne Boleyn. There is no value in thinking of old scores and old wrongs. What one must take note of is the future that lies ahead of us. I trust that you, Lady Howard, would already know that I have been entrusted with the total, absolute care of my sister, the Princess Elizabeth, ever since she was but a child of three. I had cared for her, watched over her, taught her myself, and prayed and wept for her. And I can say that, despite all the crimes which the Lady Anne had been found guilty of, her daughter – my sister – is innocent. A thorough innocent in this dreadful matter. As innocent as Our Lady Herself. There is no trace of witchcraft in her blood, nor is there any stain of sin on her soul, nor is there any shadow of malevolence in her nature. And I know her to be worthy of the title of "Princess" in everyway, in spite of what some might think and feel."

"I understand, Princess," was all Katherine could muster, and she felt so much like a fool that she wished that the ground would crack open and swallow up this infuriating, insulting half-foreign Princess, who had the gall to make a joke out of her, when she herself was hardly any better, having been a bastard for half her life and still unmarried even at the ripe age of twenty-three. Since she could not even afford to show any disrespect, she settled for gritting her teeth and weaving pride-soothing fantasies in her mind. "I have heard they say that you have raised the Princess Elizabeth well, and I agree with that with all my heart. For she is, without a doubt, the loveliest child I have ever seen. As radiant as the fullest moon of a star-splashed, black-velvet night. Her smile is absolutely delightful; one really cannot look away from her. And she has a tender heart, and a soul as pure as that of yours, Princess."

"Thank you, Lady Howard." Mary replied graciously, her courtier's smile as warm as the summer sunshine. Anyone would think that she was born to be a great and accomplished Queen instead of a worthless royal bastard; she has all the style befitting a Queen of Heaven, and a charm that perhaps did not surpass that of her sister's, but certainly rivaled it in every imaginable aspect. Katherine could not help but think that this Princess had been named well: in all her charm and her grace, her wit and her learning, and especially her serenity and her peaceful calm, the Lord Himself, she was sure, would have definitely chosen her for His mother and wished to be born of her if she had been in existence when He was made man. "Perhaps I cannot speak for everyone, but to me, Elizabeth certainly is a soul as pure and fair and sweet as the lilies in the field."

_For a woman who is doomed to either make a lowly marriage to some minor noble or spend the rest of her days in spinsterhood and infertility, she sure has a witty sharp tongue, an insufferably brilliant mind, and an abominable sisterly pride…_for a moment, Katherine feared the contempt would show on her face, but upon seeing no sign of anger or display of having taken offence on Mary's face after she ventured a quick glance, she relaxed and did her best not to make direct eye-contact with this most infuriating of Princesses. "I am sure, Princess, I am sure," was all she said, with all the obedient meekness that she was capable of. _When I am Queen of England, I will make her bitterly regret making a fool out of me. I will make her inexpressibly sorry for looking at me, and speaking to me in this manner. I will not tolerate her at court; I will not tolerate her in any part of my country. I will send her to a nunnery in Spain. She can read and fast and pray till she rots there, for all I care…_

* * *

Philip wanted to break something. _Or someone._ His eyes narrowed as he caught sight of Don Luis eyeing Mary as if he would devour her on the spot.

Oh, yes. He definitely wanted to break _someone_.

The Spanish Prince was fancily dressed in Tyrian-purple velvet and rich black fur, with a mother-of-pearl crucifix at the end of a gold chain around his neck, and his hair and face were immaculate. He looked every inch a respectable, sensible and dignified young man, but Philip found him repulsive, disgusting in the extreme. For the German Duke, being himself a man of high education and vast worldly experience, saw in the Spanish Prince the secret, unmistakable look of a man to whom women existed only to give him pleasure. A man who might feel desire, might feel lust, but was always more alert to advantages and ambition than sexual passion. A man who would only spare a woman a second, more thoughtful look, if she surprisingly proved to have something between her ears, and was more than pleasant and pleasing in both appearance and behaviour.

From the look of things as they stood now, pleasant was the richest dish on the table, and pleasing looked excellent. After all, his Mary was more than engaging, more than desirable, an incredible woman the like of which had never been seen, and it was becoming increasingly obvious to everyone. But if Don Luis thought he would sample the pleasures that Mary might have to offer, Philip had a sharp objection to make. He grinned and glanced at the dagger at his belt.

A _razor-sharp_ objection.

If he could keep his mind off how Mary would look in his bed, that wealth of lush, fragrant chestnut hair spread across his pillow, her eyes shining with love for him, her sweet mouth warm and willing, and those ripe beautiful breasts for his hands and mouth to touch and taste.

Or how she would look when he wed her, wonderfully gowned in silver and white, bedecked with fabulous jewels that paled in comparison to her loveliness, her rich hair let down for the last time in public, and his ring on her adorable finger.

She was his. _His and his only._ And he would not allow anyone, anything to change that.

_Ever._

* * *

Author's Note:

Hello, ladies and gentlemen. Thanks to the few encouraging reviews that I had received from my last post, I have decided to give this another try. My gratitude towards all of your support and belief in me is beyond expression and knows no bound. Thanks! Thanks so much for everything! And remember: Please Review and Tell Me what you all think of this. Suggestions will always and forever be appreciated. Thanks again!


	15. Chapter 15

"Come and sit beside me, Bessy," Henry said, his voice mild and loving, his eyes twinkling with that tender warmth which everyone now knew to be the deadliest trap of all. It had been an excellent start, a start better than he had ever hoped for, and he was grimly determined to continue with making progress.

Elizabeth Tudor did not hesitate, did not waver, not even for a heartbeat, as if she had been rehearsing all her life for this moment. Without a glance at her most beloved older sister, without a look at the stepmother whom she, a girl who guarded her heart most jealously, had warmed considerably to (both of them cannot be expected to help anyway since they were dancing at her scheming father's commands), Elizabeth obeyed as though it were the greatest honour she had ever received. Slowly and gracefully, she sank down into the indicated hair, and smoothed the embroidered skirts of the white damask gown across her knees. She took in the measure of the chair with a thoughtful, sharp dark-eyed sweep: a seat wrought of precious, scented woods, with padded embroidered arms and a thickly cushioned back – a throne in miniature. A soft, comfortable little throne fit for a little Princess.

_Well, if he thinks that a little throne such as this would endear himself to me, and make me more at ease with him, he could not be more wrong. I did love him once, and perhaps, just perhaps, I still do, but he has taught me not to. He has destroyed everything. He has slain my mother, my uncle, and my reputation forever, and has killed my heart. Hell would freeze over before he has another chance to utterly destroy my heart, my faith, and my innocence again. And it is actually better for me this way. Much, much better. Better to be a forgotten, neglected daughter with a matchlessly kind and loving older sister as a guardian, a generous income that is more than enough for all my wants, and in one of the finest palaces in England, than to be bedecked in the richest jewels, and dressed in the most marvellous finery, and bask in the attentions and favours of a mad, dangerous father. _

"There seems to be something different about you, Bessy. Very different." Henry observed, ignorant as always of the dark, gloomy path his younger daughter's unfailingly wandered off to whatever she was forced to interact with him. He took note of how the silver-white French hood pulled his daughter's luxuriant copper-gold tresses from her angelic face, and the exquisite, elaborate pattern of the damask gown: tiny, embroidered birds, butterflies, and blossoms. _How fresh, how spring-like, and how lovely, just as a daughter of mine should be,_ he thought with a twinge of pleasure. "Tell me. Be it man, woman, or child, I can judge a person just by the look of him or her. I know that there is something different about you. What is it, Bessy?"

"A new hood, perhaps, Father?" she suggested.

_A new hood?_ Henry again took in the stylish cut of the crescent hood, the exquisite lace with which it was trimmed, and the sheer, pearl-trimmed gossamer veil that gave his daughter's auburn hair – _his hair,_ he puffed out his broad chest at this – an ethereal, otherworldly silvery sheen, as if it were a waterfall of copper and crimson dusted with the silver of fog and mist. He nodded. "It becomes you, Bessy. It becomes you very well."

Elizabeth said nothing. Once, when she had been a silly, naïve, carefree little girl, she had thought of her father as the most wonderful being in the universe, and to bask in his favour was like basking in the favour of Almighty God Himself. Her greatest wish had been to be always her father's darling, her father's favourite, and that he would always be pleased and proud of her. In the short space of little more than three years, however, she grew to think very differently. His favour was no longer divine, no longer incomparably wonderful. His pride in her, whether existent or not, no longer mattered. Her position in his heart – if she even had one, that is – was worth nothing _at all._ It would have been funny – laughably funny if it were not so painful: when she had finally managed to please him with her pleasant looks and her obedience towards his commands that she dress very richly, she had no joy in it at all. It was like a form of tax, a fine that she had to pay for being born in the shadow of the crown.

_Pathetic, was it not?_

"You look very much like your grandmother, Queen Elizabeth of York, Bessy," Henry commented, the light in his eyes and the quality of his tone giving the impression of one genuinely reminiscing the past.

Elizabeth's surprise was unfeigned. It was the very first time she had heard someone say this. As she grew over the years, she had learned herself being compared to either one of her parents many, many times: her father always with excessive, theatrical exuberance, and her mother always in hushed, timid whispers.

But_ never_ her paternal grandmother.

She had never known her, of course, and hence could only deduce what she was like from what she heard from others, and what she had read about. Even then, she knew that the chances of the mental picture she had painted of her paternal grandmother were extremely high, almost totally wrong even, given that reality and imagination were, at the very end, two different things altogether.

And yet…

Being compared to someone whom she had never known, had never seen a true glimpse of was a rather strange emotion, but not a thoroughly unpleasant one, either. For this was, after all, a woman with whom she not only shared unbreakable, sacred ties of kinship, but also the same name, and even their circumstances were somewhat similar, if one were to examine them carefully. "Really, Father?"

Henry nodded firmly. "Yes, indeed. I see so much of her in you, Bessy. You two are so very much alike. In fact, there have been times where I fancied myself seeing her looking out of your eyes. Our Lord, I am sure, must have modelled you in her likeness, and I have to say that it was one of the best decisions He has ever made."

"What was she like, Father?"

"Lovely, Bessy," was the instant reply. "Absolutely lovely. Without doubt, the loveliest lady of her time. God had made her the very embodiment of all that was beautiful and desirable in the feminine form: tall and statuesque, a face that could shame a spring morning, fine-shaped and delicate hands, long luxuriant tresses like a waterfall of gold, wide silver-blue eyes, the sweetest most guileless smile imaginable, with a soul of holy purity and a heart of incomparable gentleness and benevolence to match."

Not knowing exactly how to reply to such a fantastical description of someone who was, and would always be (while she was alive, that is) a complete stranger, Elizabeth settled with a: "My Lord Grandfather must have been the luckiest, most envied man of his time, having a matchlessly true English Rose such as My Lady Grandmother for his wife. Was he not, Father?"

"Oh, he was, Bessy. I just cannot tell how many times I have seen your grandmother's beauty and virtue turn men half-mad with desire, demanding that they write of love that is doomed to be forever unrequited from the start in poetry, and hear them sing praises of her being an ideal wife, a classic paragon of womanhood. Whispers of envy and admiration at your grandfather's incredibly good luck at being her Lord and her husband were a constant, ceaseless – even omnipresent – part of the days where they were still living. Oh, she was a woman beyond women, a Queen in every inch of her soul and being. Not only in word, but also in thought and in deed."

_Well, that part I can believe. For she must have been. Being forced into a marriage that was not of her choice. Having to completely surrender herself to a man she did not love. Constantly bending her will to that of a mother-in-law who is said to be abrasive and domineering, caring for nothing and no one but herself. Having little or no say in anything. And finally dying in childbed. Surely only a true Queen would have the grace and the dignity to successfully endure those trials without complaint, without lament, for all of her ill-fated life. _

"There was only one other woman who could match her, and that was your great-grandmother, My Lady Margaret Beaufort."

"My Lady Great-Grandmother? The one to whom our House of Tudor owes so much that it owes everything?"

"Exactly, my darling Bessy. Now she was another true paragon of womanhood. Were it not for her, the House of Tudor would not be where it is today. Were it not for her, I would not have had my crown, my throne, my scepter, and my kingdom. And you, and Mary, and Edward would not be surrounded by all these splendours, and would not be enjoying all the pleasures that you enjoy today. _By the Holy Cross, you all might not even be born_!"

"Yes, indeed, Father."

_For a moment, she was back at Hunsdon, in bed with her sister, whose eyes sparkled like sapphires in the firelight as she told her one of their family stories._

_"She must have been a terrifying woman, Mary. A terrifying woman in everyway. God forgive me for speaking ill of the dead, of our great-grandmother Margaret, but to banish our great-grandmother Elizabeth from court forever on false charges, and confining her in a convent? It is terrifying to me, Mary. I mean, they are family, and family members should not treat each other this way."_

_"If everyone could think and feel the way you do, Beth, the world will be a much, much better place. But no. All those who are in a position of absolute power and utter authority have to be – to a certain extent, of course – terrifying, with the strength and will to make hard decisions, even those as unthinkable as forgoing family ties. How else can they rule? How else can they inspire awe and respect in both peers and servants? How else can they give orders and expect them to be obeyed? And how else can they have any work done?"_

_"I still think of it as a terrifyingly ugly thing, Mary. Our Lady Great-Grandmother Margaret seems like a most well-thought-of, but hard-hearted woman, with no tenderness at all. What woman would order her only son into the face of terrible danger to claim the throne? And what woman would see to it that her enemy is utterly destroyed even after it has been thoroughly defeated? You and Father Bors told me that Jesus Christ preaches love, peace, and forgiveness. He even begged His Father to forgive the mobs who, in their utter ignorance and foolishness, taunted him when He was being sacrificed for all of mankind's sake. It seems to me the most ridiculous thing of all that a woman who has failed to learn and practice His lessons should claim a famously great reputation for holiness and for learning. How can this be, Mary?"_

_For a moment there was a silence as Mary observed Elizabeth. Her little sister had always been a most lovable child, but also, at times, strange and unusual. While many other children at her age would be trusting, naïve and obedient, she was – in stark, dramatic contrast – always watchful, always wise beyond her years, her precocity such that she always seemed to go straight to the most obvious (something which, most ironically, many adults far older and far wiser than her tend to either miss out or avoid). When she spoke, her voice was warm with that sisterly pride that she had come to cultivate through raising Elizabeth: "This world is a difficult and complicated world, Elizabeth. A world that is a blend of good and evil, beauty and ugliness, love and indifference. A world that is grey. Supremely grey. Not everything can be as clear, simple, and clean as the black-and-white Scriptures, which itself has produced both positive and negative effects despite its sole purpose of teaching Our Saviour's ways of love and peace. It is terrifying, and it is ugly, and it is one of the saddest facts of all, but this is the reality. There are always two sides to every coin, just like how all human beings have both good and evil in them. The God-given duty of a true Christian is to admire, to try to cultivate the good we see in others, while understanding and forgiving the evil we sense. One must never only take note of the shadow that someone casts, and neglects to appreciate the light that he or she radiates, Elizabeth."_

_"Yes, Mary."_

_"And do not forget one important thing: our great-grandmother Margaret is dead. As such, we would never get to personally meet her, to personally know her, until perhaps the day God sees fit to take us into His grace. Before that day, our great-grandmother would always be a mystery to us. No matter how much we may read about her and hear about her from others, we would never know her for the woman that she truly is, especially since different people have different opinions. She is a stranger, and it is never wise or fair to pass judgement on a stranger, Elizabeth. Do you understand?"_

_"Yes, Mary, I understand."_

_"Another important factor to take to heart would be that, even if our great-grandmother Margaret is, as you have described, a most hard-hearted woman incapable of any tenderness, she is still the one to whom our family owes so much that it owes everything. If she had not served herself, her family and her country, our father would not be on the throne today, and you, and I, and our dear little Edward would not be here right now, enjoying the pomp of royalty. If it was not in her nature to stop at nothing to maintain the power of her family, and to banish anyone who might distract her from her own power from court, our family's hold on the throne would not be so strong now, and England would not be a force to be reckoned with in Europe. As such, even if she might not be the best of great-grandmothers, she is still deserving of our respect and admiration. Her memory should always be honoured. Never forget that, Elizabeth."_

_"Yes, Mary, I will remember that. I promise."_

_Even if I still think of her as a greedy, ambitious woman with an insatiable thirst for power and wealth…_

Henry was watching his younger daughter. Elizabeth, it seemed, had withdrawn into one of those thoughtful, meditative reveries not unlike those of her sister, and seemed to have forgotten his presence. _A habit that she must have picked up from Mary, no doubt,_ he reasoned darkly. _It is one that I must get her to renounce. Mary must as well, but I will leave that to her husband. It is a silly, meaningless thing that only abbesses, nuns, and convent-raised girls do. And my daughters were most certainly not raised to live lives of celibacy!_

"Bessy, my dearest Bessy," he said, making her start. "Is everything all right? You seem to have lost yourself."

"Well, if you must know, Father, I was entertaining a foolish fancy."

"A foolish fancy?"

"Yes, Father. A foolish fancy, a silly little wish that My Lady Great-Grandmother and My Lady Grandmother were still alive today. I know that I would have loved to get to know them, for they must be two most admirable ladies, and I would have benefited a good deal from the lessons that they could teach."

Henry's answering beam was as radiant as the sun itself, so much so that Elizabeth almost had to put her hand up to her eyes to shield them from its blinding brilliance. She was just not used to her father's exuberance, not when she knew it to be as inconstant and changeable as the weather, and that the darkest, most terrible of thunderclouds could come over this deceptively golden and warm Tudor sun at any moment. What she wanted was constancy, that comforting sense of knowing that, come what may, there were some things that had never, would never, change. It was times that like these that made her wish for the simplicity and gentleness of her older sister, and the world of Hunsdon, where at least everything was exactly as it seemed. "I am very touched, Bessy. You are truly an excellent child. They were, as you have said, ladies who are most admirable in every imaginable way, and you were right in saying that you could learn many a valuable lesson from them, just like I did when I was a child. Though you could never meet them in this life, I am sure that they, looking down from Heaven, would be proud – tremendously proud of having you as a descendant of the House of Tudor, as a member of this family, and pleased with you having such a wonderful opinion of them."

_Heaven, Hell, or Purgatory?_ "Yes, Father."

"And do not worry about never being able to learn from them, Bessy, for everything that they have to teach is instinct within them, lessons that manifested with the passage of time to be cultivated and always remembered. Even if they were living still, the very best they have to offer you are only words, words that you can only decipher and embrace as you grow in knowledge and wisdom. Since their pure, holy blood flows in your veins, I am sure that their virtues are also innate within you, and I predict that, in time, you would discover them, one by one, develop them, and embrace them splendidly."

"Thank you, Father. That is a true, great comfort. But if I may, may I ask you something?"

"But of course you may. Never be afraid to clear your doubts with me, my darling Bessy. What is it?"

"Well, I have heard of some speaking of My Lady Great-Grandmother as a visionary, a prophetess of God in her own right. Is it true, Father? Did she really have the gift of the Second Sight? Did she really have visions of saints banishing demons back to Hell, and heard voices of Angels foretelling the future? And…did she really…really…have a stigma like Jesus Christ Himself?"

Henry could not help himself: he laughed the merry, infectious Tudor laugh, for those questions were the exact same ones that he himself had almost constantly wondered in his childhood, and had many a time sought to clarify with his grandmother, though those attempts all turned out to be futile. No matter how much he wheedled and pouted, how many times he begged with puppy-dog eyes, his grandmother always smiled the mysterious, enigmatic smile that said: "I would admit that I know a wonderful secret that you do not know. But I am sorry; I cannot tell you what it is, as it is only for me to know." and then either dismissed him with an imperious wave of her hand, or went away herself. "Well, Bessy, I am sorry, but I am afraid that I do not have the answer to that question. Your great-grandmother, God rest her soul, was undoubtedly the saintliest woman of her time, but also the most discreet. If God has confided holy secrets in her, then she has guarded them most jealously – not even whispering them to herself, I believe. If Angels have spoken to her in dreams, omens and visions, then she has spoken of them to no one, not even your grandfather, my father, who was the one and only person that she would trust with anything. But…if what my father has told me is true, she did have a stigma. Far less significant and far less visible compared to those of Our Saviour, of course, but a stigma nonetheless."

"What was it then, Father?" Elizabeth asked, deeply intrigued despite herself.

"Saints' knees."

Elizabeth arched a sleek black eyebrow. "Saints' knees?"

Henry nodded proudly. "From what your grandfather has told me, Bessy, even as a child of only nine years old, your great-grandmother already has the red, roughened knees of a saint. She prays so much, and on such hard floors, that the skin on her knees had become hard, like the callus on my finger here. _Can you imagine that, Bessy?_ Your great-grandmother was not yet ten, only a little older than you are now, and yet she has saints' knees. _Saints' knees! _She has scuffed the skin of her knees in continual prayer, those are her stigma: saints' knees. Not to mention that she thirsts and fasts all Friday, every week, and on holy days too. Oh, there was no woman who prayed with more fervour, or went on more pilgrimages than her."

_It sounds more like showing off and playing at piety to me,_ Elizabeth mused, though of course she would never voice it out loud. _It sounds like an insincere, false display of excessive and theatrical devotion. I must say, I have never heard of anything more blasphemously presumptuous than this. In the first place, no one has ever seen what the knees of a saint look like, so how can she be sure that her knees are identical to those of a saint? Anyone's knees can turn red, hard, and rough from long hours of praying on hard floors. I may never get to know her, and I may still have much to learn, but one thing I know for sure is that Jesus Christ is the embodiment of all love, peace, salvation, and redemption. What true daughter of His then would mastermind something as indifferent, bloodthirsty, and destructive as a war? May God forgive me for thinking so ill of my dead great-grandmother, but I am sure that she is no favourite of His, as she has so audaciously claimed to be. If there was one woman who is a true daughter and messenger of Christ, then it would definitely be my sister, Mary, who has given me her protection, her wealth, her home, and even her love, when she has every right not to, considering what my mother did to hers. This is something that this Lady Margaret can never achieve. Whatever piety and devotion she demonstrated throughout her life must be nothing more than a mask of a nature consumed by the sins of greed, ambition, and ruthless manipulation. Nothing mattered more to this woman than power and wealth, and she would sacrifice anything for it._ "It must have been a sad, sad day for England, and especially for you, Father, when God decided that it was time to take her into His grace."

"Oh, it was, Bessy. It certainly was. But I found comfort in the fact that she has gone out of this miserable world into the everlasting peace and bliss of Paradise. Yes, I am sure that she is a saint in Paradise now, respected and honoured by all."

Elizabeth did not say: "_Paradise?_ Would a woman of such overwhelming greed and ambition really be allowed in Paradise?" she did not say: "This is a woman who has the audacity to believe that she and Almighty God are of the same mind. A woman thinks that God only commands her preferences, that her will is always His will, and that she is without sin. Would God really permit such a blasphemous woman into His idyllic realm of eternal rest?" instead, she said, "I am sure of that too, Father."

"But enough of that, Bessy. There is no merit in discussing people who have gone by, and are no doubt watching us both from Heaven. Why don't you show us all a dance?" Henry changed the subject, thinking that he would love to see his younger daughter perform. "Please?" he added, his voice as sweetly soft as a spoiled child demanding for another sweet despite being full to bursting.

Elizabeth's smile never faltered, not even for a moment. "But of course, Father."

"Why not let me dance instead, Father?"

It was Mary, who seemed a little breathless, with her beautiful face flushed and her luxuriant chestnut tresses slightly disheveled from her dancing. She had finished with a curtsey and, upon seeing her father engaging her sister in deep, animated conversation, had quickly come over to offer her sister what mental support she could, only to be dealt with a sharp pang of dismay at her father's "request". She knew that her sister would definitely be uncomfortable about performing alone in front of strangers.

"Ah, Mary," Henry took his older daughter by the hands and gently kissed either one of her cheeks, the golden Tudor smile on his lips. "I am so pleased with you. You have performed most delightfully. I daresay that Francis and Charles would be emerald-green with jealousy of me if they had seen your marvellous performance, and wish to God that their daughters could be as skilful and talented and accomplished as you are."

"Thank you, Father," Mary could not help but straighten her shoulders and squirm with delight on the inside at the compliment. It was simply in her nature. From the moment she could walk and talk she, very much like her sister, had thought of her father as a God on earth, and the most important goal in her life was to be a daughter whom he could be utterly proud of. As such, though time had proven again and again that the God that was her father could be cruel, merciless and dangerously fickle, she could still think kindly of him, and bask in his approval, especially since he – for all his faults – was still undeniably the man who had given her life. Then, her razor-sharp sisterly concern imperiously commanded that warm sensation of daughterly pride to depart, and for her to return to the pressing matter at hand. "If you wish, I would be happy to please you with another dance."

"As tempting as that sounds, I am afraid that I shall have to say no, Mary. You have been dancing nearly all night, and surely you must be tired, and in desperate need of some rest and refreshments. Come, sit, and drink some of this cool hippocras wine. It would do you an absolute power of good, I am sure."

"But…"

"No "buts", Mary. You have to rest now. You look like you would expire should you attempt even one more dance. Let your sister perform. I could hardly remember the last time where I had seen her display the grace of her movement and the lightness of her feet, and I would confess to being hopelessly curious about the brilliance of her performance, especially after the utterly favourable reports you yourself and her tutors have sent to me about her studies in the arts."

"Father…"

"It is all right, Sister," Elizabeth spoke up quietly, her smile warm and heartfelt in the light of the genuine concern on her sister's face and in her voice. "I would be happy and honoured to dance for Father."

No one but Mary, who knew her sister best, could have heard the unwilling strain in that low, haunting voice.

* * *

Philip did not take the matching chair beside his brother's: as swift as a striking viper, he strode over to the young woman he loved and took the deliberately empty space beside her. Don Luis and Eustace could do nothing but glare menacingly, while Otto gave his younger brother an approving wink, as one Wittelsbach man to another. Even Queen Barbara gave a small, secretive smile of utter approval at how perfectly her favourite cousin had seized the opportunity she had arranged for him.

He glanced at his beloved, who betrayed no disapproval or weary exasperation at his proximity to her. She merely smiled her gracious courtier's smile, greeted him with all politeness, and then turned her attention back on her dancing sister. Her sister having to perform against her will filled her with such displeasure, such worried concern, that she had neither the strength nor the wit to care about her own personal conflicts or to fend off anyone, especially one as straightforward, warm-hearted, and infuriatingly lovable as this persistent Duke.

Philip of Bavaria was dramatically dressed in highest-quality black velvet, with a chain of gold and blood-red rubies draped across his powerful chest and shoulders in perfect balance to the mouthwatering thighs and toned calf-muscles bulging against the pristine snow-white silk of his hose, and emphasised by beautifully embroidered and bejeweled garters. An elegant black velvet cap, as flat and round as a pancake, ornamented with silver and pearls and snow-white plumes, sat jauntily upon his magnificent head, crowning a wealth of thick, curly hair the colour of burnished bronze in the firelight. _Black and white,_ Mary could not help but observe, taking in the midnight shade of his robes and the wintry hue of his hose and the plumes of his cap, which seemed to shine silver at the slightest movement. _Black and white. The two most severe of all colours. The colours of a fresh, new book. The colours of religion. My pure and beautiful Elizabeth's favourite colours…_

And speaking of Elizabeth…

Raising her lovely white arms, standing on the tips of her toes, she had glided over the floor to the center of the hall where everyone could see her clearly, and then started to dance.

It was more than beautiful, more than brilliant – it was _intoxicating._

Intoxicating not only to the eye, but also to the heart and soul.

Elizabeth danced as no one yet had been able to dance. At each moment, at every sway, her beauty became more revealed, and her expressive eyes appealed more directly to the heart than any song ever could. Everyone was enchanted, even those who bitterly hated this little Princess for no better reason than spite.

"I have seen many a beautiful and accomplished woman, Your Excellency," Don Luis whispered to Eustace without taking his eyes off the dancing Princess. "And I have to say that none of them, absolutely none, could match this little girl for charm and grace. She is like her sister in everyway: an incarnation of beauty in its purest form, a complete and utter pleasure to just watch, and paradise on a dance floor. More than that, I think she is the loveliest child I have ever seen. A real siren. A real enchantress. Perhaps perfection. A child who could melt the hardest heart simply by giving a hint of distress.

Eustace blinked. He had seen his mistress fall completely and hopelessly in love with that damned siren of a bastard, but he thought that Don Luis, whose nature had been hardened to the extreme through devastating battles, and who had been forewarned by him of her scandalous, unscrupulous charms, would be immune. But it seems as if he had been wrong, and that Don Luis was just like any other man: vulnerable to a shy smile and a pair of puppy-dog eyes. There had been numerous times where it cost all of Eustace's self-control for him not to slap her when he saw the way she looked up at her sister, and followed her as faithfully as a shadow would. His intense, determined hatred of her blinded him thoroughly to the genuine affection and love she had for her sister, but even in his jealousy he could not deny her beauty.

"She is," he admitted. "She is perfection." He was aware that he had gritted his teeth, and – with considerable effort – he unlocked his jaw and smiled at this new and unlikeliest recruit to the huge circle of people who are in love with Elizabeth Tudor, the bastard of England. He would have to report to the Emperor that they would need a new plan. "But I must say, I did not expect you, Your Grace, of all people, to fall for her too." He tried to speak cheerfully, but his heart felt very heavy at this sudden new admirer.

A wicked, knowing smile slowly spread over Don Luis' face. No fool, he had recognised the sarcasm and dismay in Eustace's tone. "Oh, she is irresistible, Your Excellency," he said pleasantly in a voice as smooth as a snake. "Only a man utterly without a heart would be immune to the magic that she weaves. Even you yourself, with so many reasons to loathe her to the soul, had acknowledged her exquisite, inexpressible charm. She is a Princess beyond Princesses, just like how the sister who raised her is. But, not so fast, my dear Ambassador, ask me what else I would say of her."

At this, Eustace Chapuys stared at him, his heart starting to pound again. _Did he dare hope?_ Don Luis elaborated sweetly, as sweet as honey, as sweet as the marchpane that had been served for dessert. "Let me think. What else do I see in this perfect Princess? Ah, yes. A thorn in our side, exactly like what you had confided in me. Perhaps the biggest, sharpest one there is, I might add, second to none but that accursed, brazen Dutch heretic who has the audacity to look at my chosen bride as if he would devour her on the spot. A frightening enemy. For all that she smiles so sweetly, behaves so innocently, and looks so guilelessly now, the day will come where she proves to be an evil, scheming witch like her mother before her. A determined heretic and foe to everything we have done and hope to do in England. She would have my Princess – this land's last hope of salvation – deny the true religion, the Holy Church, and embrace sin and darkness. There is no doubt in my mind that the monster she would become will destroy anything and everything that is pure and holy and blessed by God. I would call her the most dangerous enemy to the redemption of England that one has ever faced. She is enemy of Spain, she is enemy of the True Church, she is my enemy. I will never forget the danger she poses nor forgive her for the threat that she is to the salvation of my Princess and my future country."

Eustace breathed a long and deep sigh of relief. "Thank God that He has allowed you to see that little bastard for what she truly is, Your Grace."

Don Luis nodded, his pleasantly smiling countenance now replaced by the grim, menacingly dark look of a hardened man immune from the horror of shedding the blood of an innocent who had done him no wrong. His blue eyes narrowed as he surveyed Elizabeth swirling like a gentle gust of green spring wind, her cheeks rosy, her eyes bright. "God forgive me, but she is one that must be disposed of for us to succeed."

* * *

"I trust that you and your sister are in good health, Princess?"

"Yes, Your Grace, we both are. Thank you for your concern."

"The pleasure is mine."

For a moment there was silence as they watched how the radiant, sweet-faced vision that was Elizabeth dance as if she and the music were one being: fast, dainty footwork that gave the impression of her feet gliding on air instead of the ground, and high leaps that made her seem as if she was capable of flying like an Angel of Paradise. The eloquence that her eyes and her entire manner expressed was such as no one had ever seen, not even in the times where her notoriously talented mother had been alive, and had delighted the court night after night with her accomplishments in the arts of dancing and music.

Mary should have been happy, for this was an undeniable testament which proved to the world that she had raised and taught her sister well, but she was not. Not at all. How could she, when her beloved sister was being forced into doing something against her will? How could she, when she knew with all the certainty of the sun setting in the west that, by the time this was over, her sister was going to be as drained and as exhausted as an old woman who had been working in the fields all day? How could she, when she knew only too well that her sister could not be unhappier?

It was as if Philip had sensed her unhappiness, for he tried to engage her again in conversation, as though trying to make some light of the dark situation.

_Seems as if your Prince has sensed your gloom and wants to bring the pretty smile back on your face…_a mischievous, simultaneously foreign yet familiar little voice whispered in Mary's mind, one that was instantly hushed by the intense force of her sisterly concern. Now was _not_ the time for this.

"Your sister, the Princess Elizabeth, is a real credit to you and your family, _milady._ What they have said about His Majesty charging you completely with her nurturing and education is true: I believe that no one could have taught her better, or raised her better. A child though she might still seem, it is only in years. In mind, in skill and in expression, I daresay that she could perfectly outshine many a fully-bloomed woman as the full moon outshines the stars."

"Thank you, Your Grace," Mary said; her eyes and voice warm as she sensed the gentle, unfeigned sincerity of his compliments. She could not snub them off, not when she knew them to be made in all honesty. "It is very kind of you to say so."

"I speak nothing but the truth, _milady._ You must be very proud of your sister."

"I am. I am proud of my sister…more proud than I can ever express. Perhaps I cannot speak for everyone, but to me, Elizabeth is the best and loveliest child I have ever been blessed to care for."

"And you have every reason to think that, _milady._ I believe that His Majesty, the King, must feel the same way as you do."

"I trust that he does…in his own unique way," Mary agreed, suppressing a wince at the recollection of her father's boisterous, exaggerative show of paternal affection. While it was one of the greatest comforts in the world for her father to openly display his love for her and Elizabeth, the manner in which he expressed it could be…well, to put it flatly, _embarrassing._

"Tudor is written all over her face," Philip was saying about her sister. "In her air, her manner of walking, the tone of her voice, her address and expressions, and…" here he cast an impish, meaningful look at Mary. "Even in her hands."

Mary raised an eyebrow. "Her hands?"

"Indeed," he said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Her hands are an exact feminised version of those of His Majesty, just like how yours are, milady: soft, sensitive, and silver-white from lack of labour, with tiny, deft fingers, perfectly manicured.

His head was bent towards her hands, and Mary gave in to the impulse to have a look at the base of his neck, and wondered as to what it would be like to touch the thick curling hair.

"Your hands must be half the size of mine," he said idly. "Would you please stretch them out and show me, my Princess?"

Mary turned to him with a reproachful refusal at the tip of her tongue, but when she looked into his eyes, pools of black-brown that she could swim in forever, a sudden wave of light-headedness came over her, compelling her to give in. She stretched out her hand to show up, palm up, towards him. His gaze never left her face as he placed his hand out too, palm to palm towards hers, yet not touching. She could feel the warmth of his hand against hers, and she found that she was watching him intently through the corner of her eye. She could not help herself. His beard was immaculately trimmed and groomed, framing his mouth and the sides of his face like a portrait, and she wondered if it would be soft or spiky, or perhaps even a harmonious blend of both. His lips seemed like the work of a fastidious master sculptor intent on evoking nothing less than perfection, so _sensual_ and so _kissable_ did they look. She could not take the part of her eyes that was watching him from them, and she could not help but think about what it would be like to touch them again, to taste them again…

_For the love of the Blessed Virgin, Princess, how many times must we have this argument? Anything between you two is impossible. You are a child of the true religion, while he is an infidel. He only seeks to break you away from the embrace of God and lead you into the arms of the Devil. He is a most dangerous man, and must be avoided at all costs, especially since Satan has seen fit to gift him with such a damnably dramatic impact on you. Why are you letting him do this? Why are you giving him more opportunities to weave his evil spells around you? Would you betray your mother's teaching and hopes for you, the country that sees you as its last hope of being restored into grace, and your immortal soul before Our Lady, on the mere whim of a foolish, thoughtless infatuation?_

_Hold your peace. I wish to hear nothing from you tonight._

_I beg your pardon?_

_I have had enough of you. You hear me? Enough of you. I have forgotten nothing. But I am weary now. I wish to rest, to have some peace and…if possible…to experience that which is written in fairy tales, sung by songs, and praised in poems. I want to experience that which is called "true love". Even if it breaks my heart and my soul at the very end, though I highly doubt it would happen with Philip, I can at least die with the satisfaction that I, for once, had had the courage to actually seek for something that cannot be easily found, instead of just leading a dull and monotonous life till the day I die._

_You…_

_And I have never been interested to wear a crown and to rule a country. I see that now. I had used to think that it is my fondest wish, but I realise now that that is not what I had wanted all along. Even when I was the Princess of Wales and regarded by all as the acknowledged heiress to the throne, I had no personal wish to sit on it and to hold the scepter, but had merely regarded it as an inevitability, a holy and sacred responsibility that I have no choice but to accept. I know that now. I care nothing for absolute power or for timeless greatness. What I truly want is an utterly dependable, utterly trustworthy man to whom I can give myself thoroughly: body, heart, mind, and soul. What I truly want is a kind and devoted husband who would truly love me for myself till the day death does us apart, and children of my own. Children to whom my Elizabeth and my Edward can help to love and care for, not only as aunt and uncle, but also as playmates, confidants, and perhaps even godparents. Children who will grow in health, beauty and grace, and always fill my life with sunshine and laughter. Children who will ultimately prove to be the pride and joy of my life._

_You…you…you yourself once said that you were content with having Elizabeth and Edward. You once said that you would have no children but them._

_I did say that. But it was until I realised that doing both me and Elizabeth the greatest of disservices._

_What? But…what…_

_Enough! I am in no mood to talk to you, let alone explain to you. Just, just, for the love of all that's good, keep quiet for at least this night!_

Slowly, he brought his hand closer to hers, like dancers closing in a pavane. The heel of his hand touched the heel of hers and she felt the touch like a bite. Her training as a Princess allowed her to successfully withstand the impulse of jumping, but still she sensed Philip's lips curl in a smile as he could instinctively detect that, though she hid it well, his touch was an electrifying shock to her. Her cool palm and fingers extended along his, her fingers stopping short of his at the top joints. She felt the sensation of his warm skin, a callus on one finger from archery, the hard palms of a man who rides, swims, plays tennis, hunts, and can hold a lance and a sword all the day. She ventured a glance at him, taking the entirety of his handsome face, the bright alertness of his gaze that focused on her like a sun through a burning glass, the loving desire which radiated from him like heat.

_"Your skin is so soft, Princess."_ His voice was as low as a whisper, and so intimate that it might have been a lover's caress. _"And your fingers are dainty and delicate, just as I thought."_

The excuse of measuring the span of their fingers had long been exhausted, but they remained still, palm to palm. Though his beloved Mary was not looking at him – at least, not directly, Philip was inwardly delighted with her not spurning his advances as he had thought she would, and that, though she seemed to give no appearance of it at all, she had divided her attention between Elizabeth and him. It was definite proof that he meant something special to her, as special as her little sister was. Then slowly, irresistibly, his hand cupped hers and he held it, gently but firmly within his own…

* * *

Author's Note:

I have said these before and I will say them again: This is the best I could conjure up for now. And Please Remember That Suggestions and Reviews Will Forever Be SUPREMELY APPRECIATED! Thanks! And oh, by the way…I did not bring up Margaret Beaufort and Elizabeth of York just for fun, or for only a one-night's show. Both have their purposes. Want to know what? Well…sorry, ladies and gentlemen, you will have to wait until my muses show mercy again. Thanks, though, for all the support that you have shown so far! A million thanks! Until next time…


	16. Chapter 16

Catherine Brandon (CB) gave a mocking, scornful laugh as she watched the two Princesses leave to retire to their apartments. "I was right, as I always am," she said triumphantly, a sneer marring that face that had once been so irresistibly exquisite to her husband. "Blood has out. The mother was a whore, and it seems as though the daughter is no better. No better at all. One would have thought that her mother's death would have served as a warning, but _no…_the Boleyn whores, be they young or old, child or woman, persist in weaving their sinister witchcraft and practice their scandalous wiles on the innocent. They cut off her head, and yet here is her daughter rising up like a serpent with the same poison in her mouth. Quite tragic, is it not? But there it is."

Brandon took a deep draught of his wine, his already grim mood worsened. It never failed to now whenever his wife opened her foul mouth to speak her fouler mind. The very sight of her was becoming increasingly disagreeable to him, and he was wondering with every inch of his soul and being as to what madness had compelled him to marry her in the first place. Of course, as her husband, he could have kicked her out without a shilling (everything she possessed was, by the law that rules that a wife has no rights, _his property_, and he had the sturdy backing of the most powerful friends imaginable), but when he recalled the lonely, haunting look of the Princess Elizabeth, at how she gritted her teeth to smile and clenched her hands to keep herself from shaking with utter terror at the man who give her life, the thoughts of renouncing his wife and casting her out to become a homeless penniless beggar instantly vanished. He had no right to do so. This was his penance. Maintaining the font that his marriage was still a happy one and tolerating his shrew of a wife was his penance, and it was one that he did with the bitter, unhappy satisfaction of a man who knows that he had done great wrongs and wished to be punished severely for them. Knivert had been absolutely right when he said that he had no one to blame but himself.

"I see that I shall have to write again to the Princess Mary," CB carried on in her (unconsciously to her, at least) ungracious, condescending manner, which was made all the more disagreeable by the bitterness that crept into her tone like a worm when she spoke of the Spanish-Tudor Princess. Mary had once been one of her most intimate friends, with whom she corresponded regularly through letters and even visits, but their relationship deteriorated at a slow but gradual rate ever since Mary was entrusted with the care of her half-sister: her letters and calls had grown fewer and fewer until they stopped altogether, and she never spoke to her now unless it was absolutely necessary, and even then she was only polite, as a Princess should, but no more than that. And for this CB cursed and damned Anne Boleyn's copper-haired daughter, believing that the little bastard had turned Mary against her, and was always up to no good, just like her mother had been before her. "And advise her of the harm the bastard poses. No good will ever come of that brat. I am sure of it. With the courtesan eyes and the sinful, unholy blood of that whore, it will only be a matter of time before she becomes yet another one of Satan's concubines, no doubt of it. The right thing for the Princess Mary to do is to deny the brat. She should renounce her as her sister; forswear her as any relation of hers. She should throw the unworthy brat from her affection forever, and leave her to reap the fruits of the heinous offences that she would surely commit."

A muscle started twitching in Brandon's jaw, but he said nothing.

"The Princess Mary is a saint, but I daresay that she should be served by people who can make worldly decisions. If neither she nor His Majesty can bring themselves to give the brat the fate that she deserves so well, then what should be done is to bundle the brat on a ship and send her off to the strictest nunnery in France, with orders that under _no circumstances_ were they to spare the rod, and that they were to give her the hardest chores. Only then would there be a faint chance of her witch-like wit and demonic spirit be broken down to the obedience and serenity that befits a good Christian woman."

Brandon bit down on his tongue – hard – to stop the retort that was on its tip. _There was no point._ His wife, he was coming to see now, was no longer the woman he loved. She was now growing into another person altogether, a proud and arrogant creature with an imperious disregard of all but her own opinions, of which the Princess Elizabeth had long been – unknowingly to her – suffering the brunt of her ceaseless renditions. _I shall lay down instructions that any of her letters to the Princess Mary be intercepted_, Brandon resolved, his jaw tightening. If need be, he would even report to Henry directly that his wife had been badmouthing Elizabeth to Mary, and let him deal with the matter as he saw fit. Henry, he knew, would not tolerate anyone who did not command his own highest respect to interfere with his daughters' education or peace, especially since he was now determined to win back their favours and get to know them again.

CB was now staring at her husband, question marks shooting out of her hazel eyes. "Why don't you speak, Husband? Have you lost your tongue?"

_Every time I do, you twist and turn things around to your advantage, shaming me in every possible way…_

"Husband?"

…

"Husband? Husband? Charles?"

…

"For god's sake, Charles, speak up! There must be something important on your mind. It is written all over your face."

_You are adamant in having me speak out, are you not, woman? All right then, I will speak out!_ "Do you not think that you are being too cruel to the Princess Elizabeth?"

"_The Lady Elizabeth_, Husband. _The Lady Elizabeth_," CB corrected instantly, flaring up a little with anger. "The Princess Mary is England's one true legitimate Princess. The Lady Elizabeth is but the illegitimate child of a woman beyond wickedness, beyond sin. And I am not being cruel. I am only being just."

"I think that the world at large would hardly call it just for you to wish her a fate of exile or death because of who her mother was. And you are forgetting the fact that she attended the fete and performed _only_ because His Majesty _ordered_ it. If it were not for His Majesty's specific orders, everyone knows that she would not have made an appearance tonight at all, let alone dance for us!"

"She should have had the good sense to refuse then. As her _mother's daughter_, she should tread with all possible care in matters of frivolity and pleasure. Any sensible person would know perfectly well that, for someone like her, needlework, housewifery, and prayer are the only suitable occupations for her. But it seems too late for that. If anything, I say that her dance tonight was a message that she has already embarked on the path her mother once trod."

Brandon had never been so tempted to strike a woman. "Good God, Catherine, you are being the most ridiculous fool! Listen to yourself: you are humiliating – in the cruelest manner there is, I might add – a mere six-year-old child just because she danced! _Danced!_ Where exactly is the sin in that? And besides, as I said earlier, she danced _only_ because His Majesty _ordered_ her to. Any sensible person would know that it is dangerous, if not _fatal_, for her to deny His Majesty's wishes! If anything, I will say that her obeying her father's orders and even doing a magnificent job of it demonstrates that she is an obedient and dutiful daughter, just like any other good Christian child. Not to mention that she is constant in her attendance on her sister and her father."

"Constant like the plague!"

"Catherine, if everyone else knew what you thought of her and heard what you said of her as I did, there is no doubt in my mind that they will view you as a cruel and merciless woman, utterly devoid of a heart and a conscience."

"That is not true. I am hardly the only one who loathes Anne Boleyn and her little bastard. Thousands do, actually. I am merely being just. I am only saying what thousands think and feel but lack the courage to voice out."

"You really do not admire her at all?"

She was shocked by the question. "What is there to admire in her?"

"Her courage, her dignity, her grace? She has beauty, of course, but she also has charm. She is splendidly-educated, she is wise beyond her years, and she can actually answer when she is spoken to, and be silent when she is not. She is never offensive. She treats everyone – even including you and me – with the greatest of politeness and respect, and she always carries herself like a true Princess of the Blood."

CB raised a kohl-lined brow. "You find her so pleasing?"

"I find her as pure and as sweet and as innocent as a lily of the field."

"Ah! As pure and as sweet and as innocent as her mother!"

"Her mother is gone, no more!" Brandon returned, now becoming furiously angry. It was beyond him to let his shrew of wife continue to curse at the poor child whose mother they had as good as killed like a vulgar fishwife. It was more than what his dawning conscience could take. "She is now motherless, bastardised, and perpetually shamed. She would never be called Princess again. She would never sit on the throne. She would either die a spinster due to her illegitimacy or be married to some minor Prince who wants her dowry more than he wants her as her own person. She is as low as a child can be brought to. What more do you want, you she-dog?"

Before a white-faced, trembling CB could make a sharp retort, someone else cut in.

Tall and strapping, thick dark hair combed back to reveal a broad, tanned forehead, a patch over one eye and a pearl dangling like a teardrop from one earlobe: Francis Bryan.

"His Majesty the King desires your presence at a party held at his quarters, Your Grace," he said smoothly.

CB turned to her husband, the face that had once been so agreeable and so pleasant to look upon now disfigured with a scowl. She had been – and still was – a beautiful woman, being tall and well-built, with rippling auburn hair and full round breasts, but the increasing ugliness of her nature was making everyone realise that the only good quality in her was her sensual good looks. Take that away and was what left? Ah, yes…_spite, cruelty, and meanness._ Little wonder that even the gentle, benevolent Princess Mary had withdrew from her, having come to realise how intolerably unpleasant her society was becoming. "What are you up to now, Charles? Is there another innocent life that needs to be destroyed, since he or she is a threat to you?"

Bryan turned the full force of his glare on the mean-spirited woman, and was slightly mortified to see her wilt a little at his fiery gaze. This woman owed _everything_ she had – her position, her wealth, her jewels, and even her noble name to her husband, and this was how she repaid him? By becoming the very worst of shrews? In a cold, calm tone dripping with pure menace, he said, "_You_ accuse your own husband of weaving plots and planting seeds of doubt in His Majesty's mind, Madam? _You, of all people_?"

CB could not help but flush at the implications of the rebuke. "I am afraid that I do not know what you mean, Sir Francis."

Bryan sneered at her, his one good eye narrowing in disgust and contempt as if he were eyeing a piece of unbearable filth. "But I am sure you do, Lady Suffolk. I am sure you do."

"Yes, indeed." Knivert, standing beside Bryan with a face like flint, put in coldly. His grey eyes were like chips of ice. He had never been fond of Charles' ward-turned-wife, and it took all of the self-control he had not to spit at her or strike her after witnessing her accusing her own husband so. He knew well that it was most probably God's punishment to Charles for having stained his hands with innocent blood and tears of utter sorrow, but he could still feel sorry for him, however reluctantly he was. After all, Charles _was_ one of his oldest and dearest childhood friends. "You know perfectly well what Francis meant, Lady Suffolk. Oh, you can deny it all you want. You can claim complete ignorance of what he meant, and you can accuse us of deliberately twisting facts, of being liars. But remember that a conscience always knows when its master or mistress is lying. And…each and every one of us has to, sooner or later, answer to Our Lord in Heaven for every action we have made, every word we have spoken."

CB went several shades redder, so much so that one would wonder if there was still any blood flowing in other parts of her body. Knivert had been right. It was easy to deceive others, but the hardest task of all to deceive oneself. And it was true that each and every human being had to, sooner or later, answer to God for his or her sins. Not that she would ever, ever admit that she had been the one who pulled the strings that ultimately made Anne Boleyn a head shorter, of course.

Before she could say anything else in her defense, Francis and Knivert herded Brandon away. They had had enough of the poison CB spread.

_Knivert is right, as he always is._ Brandon pondered silently in his mind, as his two friends led him away like a pair of devoted parents would their child. _But what would become of me then? On the Day of my Judgement, when I stand before God, and He asks me why did I kill all those innocent people, and condemn one of the best of His children to a lifetime of fear, shadows, and disgrace, what am I going to say? That my wife told me to? My wife inflamed my spite and hatred towards a Queen who turned out to be the most misunderstood and pitiful woman of all? Oh, what should I say? What should I do?_

* * *

"His Majesty the King appears to be an exceedingly blessed father, is he not? He has a strong healthy son and heir, and two exquisitely lovely daughters to boot," Don Luis commented in the way of making small talk.

Philip allowed it to be so, hoping the Spanish Prince would cease his attempts at conversation. He was still smarting from the fact that his beloved's father had broken the spell of that special, magical moment between them with his childish exuberance, and was still reminiscing in the feel of her soft, sensitive hand in his. As such, he had no desire to interact with anyone else, least of all his rival. However, Don Luis did not take the hint.

"The Princess Elizabeth is truly one of the prettiest and brightest children I have ever been privileged to meet. Her performance just now was absolutely flawless, an utter pleasure to watch. And there is just such an expression of serenity and gentleness about her countenance and in her very air."

"Indeed," Philip responded quietly, wondering as to where this was heading. "She has been raised well, and taught well. Extremely well. I understand that she was born gifted to begin with, and a good deal of attention was – and still is being paid to her education, which is worthy of that of a legitimate Prince. For His Majesty, I believe, wishes her have every opportunity to become an example of virtuous womanhood and an ornament to the House of Tudor, just as much as her sister is."

Don Luis' smirk gave Philip a powerful impression of an imp from Hell. "Pity then that God has decreed that nothing be perfect in this world. Even the sunniest day has its dark clouds. And no matter how beautifully a rose blooms, it will always have a thorn, and I do not think it wrong to say that this is a rose that has the sharpest thorn of all. It should never have been sowed in the first place."

Philip stared more intently at Don Luis, inwardly burning with disbelief and indignation. Who was this man, and he have any idea of what he was talking about? He was not allowed to speak in his future sister-in-law's defense, though, as Don Luis immediately made a comment that set him on his guard, and told him that it was better for his anger to be a silent simmer than a boisterous boil.

"I find that I infinitely prefer the pious, holy beauty and calm, gracious confidence of her sister, the Princess Mary. For a gentleman searching for the qualities of virtue, wisdom, and loveliness in a wife, I daresay that they could not find a better specimen than the Princess Mary. Would you not agree?"

Philip regarded Don Luis through narrowed eyes, his handsome face grim. What was he thinking, to be bringing up such a subject? Obviously he knew of his love for Mary. Did he mean to purposely antagonise a rival by expressing interest in the mesmerising young Princess whom Philip had set his sights upon?

"I would agree that the Princess Mary is the epitome of a beautiful, wise, and virtuous young woman. And there are few, if any at all, who could boast of possessing a more passionate devotion to Our Lord or a more absolute purity than she does. It is part of her charm."

"Ah, yes. Her piety and devotion are legendary throughout the whole of Europe. I have even heard some say that a young woman as pious, devout, and holy as she is should be meant for the Church, meant for sainthood, meant to become a bride of Christ. What say you to that, Your Grace?"

"That is, I believe, a private matter meant for only His Majesty and ultimately, _the Princess Mary herself_, to decide. As her father and her King, His Majesty has a natural God-given prominent say regarding her affairs, especially in the matter of her marriage, and he has every rights of advising and even demanding, but the final decision should rest in its entirety with _her_ and _her alone_. It is natural and just for her to decide on her own destiny. After all, I am sure that Our Lord would not be pleased to have a half-hearted servant in His service, nor will he look with favour on a marriage that is founded on force, gain and ambition instead of willingness, mutual affection and respect. But...as far as I know, neither she nor His Majesty has drawn up any plans of her entering a nunnery or marrying."

_So…this is one who believes in marrying for love? By God, not only he is a heretic, he is a crude and utterly selfish one at that. Everyone knows that truly great men marry only for duty, and seek pleasures elsewhere if need be. That is the rightful way of the world…_ "It would be a sad, sad day for our sex if it was decided that she should take orders, is it not, Your Grace? I do not think it nonsensical to believe that there are even those who would shed a tear or two. After all, her piety might be indisputable, but it is equally indisputable that she possesses the form and the demeanour of a Goddess whom no man can resist."

The warning bells in Philip's mind only rang louder. What exactly was this poor excuse of a man up to? Was he trying to insinuate something here? Or was he just intent on unsettling him, making him as uncomfortable as can be?

"She is every inch a woman made for love, for desire. She is ready for marriage, indeed, she is over-ready for marriage. She is a woman who should be bedded."

Philip could not help but hiss like an aroused snake. Was just only his jealous imagination, or did the way Don Luis describe Mary's beauty and sensuality made it seem as though all she was good for was to warm a man's bed? "Have a care, Your Grace."

Don Luis only smirked. "I only speak the truth, Your Grace. You yourself have agreed that the Princess Mary is a woman who attracts the opposite sex as the most beautiful blossoms would the prettiest butterflies. I daresay that it is impossible for her to remain unmarried for all of her life. She is simply too lovely and too desirable a female to be left on the shelf. Out of all the potential suitors, however, I am inclined to believe that she would choose a Spaniard. After all, like goes to like, and she is half-Spaniard herself."

"God knows that the Princess Mary is an Englishwoman, with a genuine love for her birth country, both people and countryside."

"But Spain is in her blood. She is a part of it, it is a part of her, and that is something that nothing and no one can ever change. I understand that she is her mother's daughter through and through, and she has always nursed a secret desire to see her mother's birth country. And I believe that Spain, in turn, will only be too happy to welcome her as its daughter, and have her settle down there as a wife and mother."

"I am sorry to be blunt, but if you have bent your attentions in her direction, I suggest you look elsewhere for another plaything. There are many who would not be pleased with one confusing her and toying with her emotions."

"I assure you, Your Grace, that I have _no_ such intentions," Philip retorted icily, holding Don Luis in a silent yet menacing glare. "And if I may point out, the Princess Mary belongs to no one. She is the daughter of great monarchs, a Princess of the Blood, and most importantly, _her own person_. She has a mind, a heart, and a will of her own, and I cannot imagine she would appreciate being reduced to the status of a mere possession."

Don Luis gave a snort of laughter and shook his head, making Philip eye him in deepened disgust. "Is that not what all women need? Do they not need to be dominated and owned so they may become of greater consequence in the world? They cannot be what our sex can be, after all. They cannot rule kingdoms, or go to war, or own property, or fend for themselves, or in any way take care of themselves in their own right. That is our responsibility, and I assure you that there are some who take this most seriously. Reliable sources have informed me that the Princess Mary will soon be married to a wonderful, God-fearing man who will take the best possible care of her, and give her a family that she can love and cherish with all of her heart and soul, and I – on behalf of those people – would ask you to respect their wishes on this matter."

"I will respect such wishes when they are made known to me by the lady in question," Philip responded, using every ounce of self-control to restrain his hands, which were inching painfully to wrap themselves around Don Luis' throat and throttle the life out of him. "I suggest you that you allow the lady to speak for herself. As God is my witness, I do not think that the Princess Mary will appreciate it when anyone presumes to speak on her behalf, let alone a total stranger."

With that, Philip swept away in high dudgeon, not wishing to engage in any more banter with this infuriating, disreputable character. He had to get away quick before he did something which, while it was highly unlikely that he would ever regret, would definitely cause his beloved Mary to be most displeased with him, and even refuse to speak to him ever again. And that was a risk that Philip of Bavaria would never, never run, no matter how indignant he might be.

But in all honesty, Don Luis was…was…_unbelievable_!

The most troubling part of the conversation was the almost rabid gleam which had shone in Don Luis' eyes as he spoke of Mary. Mary was neither a possession nor a prize to be won at a game of cards. But Don Luis' words seemed to indicate that that was exactly what she was to him. Philip swore a private, bitter oath to himself to be watchful and defend her from Don Luis' machinations at all costs. Don Luis would bear careful watching.


	17. Chapter 17

Mary was _one_ of the _few_ who saw what it truly cost Elizabeth, yet she was the most affected by it. Without bothering to step out of her new silver slippers, the ones with the great pearl-and-diamond buckles, Elizabeth seemed to drag herself to the bed, and collapsed on it like a puppet whose strings were cut. She lied in silence, like one who has dropped dead of exhaustion. Her gaze was blank on the richly embroidered canopy of the bed, her eyes wide-open, seeing nothing, breathing slowly and steadily as if she were sick. Speech seemed to be utterly beyond her.

Mary tended to her.

With a silent gravity that was unnatural even for her – her who was famed throughout Europe for possessing the faith to make an abbess, Mary dismissed all offers of help and tended to Elizabeth personally. She helped her sister to drink the hot mead that their stepmother had laid there in readiness, half-carried her to their hammam so they could be bathed, laced her into her nightgown, patted her hair dry with towels, brushed and combed the silky copper-crimson mass of thick hair until every lock shone smooth and clear in the firelight, and finally tucked her into their bed, where she straightaway closed her eyes and, in the space of a few heartbeats, started breathing the rhythm of slumber.

Despite knowing that she could be incurring the fearsome wrath of royalty, Kat Ashley still choose to take the risk: "Madame, could we not return to Hunsdon?" True, she did not know Elizabeth as well as Mary did, but she had grown to love her as if she were her very own daughter, and she knew that Elizabeth had been growing increasingly unhappy at court. The mere sight of her little mistress presently was a heart-aching one to her: pale, weak, frail, and murmuring restlessly in her sleep from time to time.

"We will leave for Hunsdon after the fete ends," Mary replied, displaying no sign of anger or annoyance, though her beautiful face was grim. Till that moment, the Princess Mary had never known that she could loathe compromises so much, when her life had been so full of them. "Rest assured, Mrs. Ashley, that I will persuade His Majesty to let us leave court with the closing of the fete. Now go and have some rest. You too, Susan. Both of you must be as exhausted as I am."

"Wait," she called, as Susan and Kat turned to leave.

"Yes, Madame?"

"There is one more thing."

Mary took the sapphire-and-diamond ring that had been her father's gift from her finger and held it out towards her two most trusted ladies-in-waiting. "Take it."

Susan raised a brow. Kat could only stare. "Madame?"

Mary took a breath, as if steadying herself so that she would not collapse. "Take it," she repeated. "Do whatever you want with it. Sell it for the best price you can get. Store it away for your descendants. Break it into pieces. Do whatever you wish with it. Just get rid of it! And make sure that I never ever set my eyes on it again!"

That was not all she did.

Susan and Kat gasped in horror as they watched their older mistress furiously tear the cheque that her father had given her – a cheque for _fifteen thousand crowns_ – into shreds, and threw them into the fire, which in turn seemed to blaze fiercer, as if responding to the offerings of her anger.

"Madame…!"

Whatever they wanted to say suddenly died on the tip of their tongues as they took in Mary's grieved, stern countenance. Her very presence seemed to exude an inexpressible torment. "I had always thought that, despite anything, despite everything, Beth needed His Majesty's love, for she is his daughter just as much as I am. I had genuinely believed that she would benefit from it, would come to see that it is not a favour to be feared, and grow to delight in it, but now…" she shook her head. "I am not so sure. I am not sure at all."

_Mother of God, what should I do? What should I do? Oh, what should I do?_

As unlike her sister as possible, Mary fell into a sleep stemming from sorrow and troubles. She honestly did not know what she should do.

_There is no woman in the world who would envy my position once she has seen it, heard it, and understood it thoroughly,_ she thought, _caught between my sister and my father,_ as Hypnos (the Greek God of Sleep) descended upon her at long last.

* * *

"Mary."

He stood at the foot of the bed, dressed in a warm robe of velvet trimmed with sable. His warm black-brown eyes sparkled like the most beautiful gems in the candlelight.

Mary gasped and sat up. Philip Wittelsbach stood still, straight and tall, the embodiment of desire. "What are you doing here?" She knew that there was no way that the guards or the ladies could have let him in, with it being so late in the night, and them being in their nightclothes. The very thought itself was a scandal.

It was then that she realised that Elizabeth was still asleep.

_My poor sister,_ she mused with a pang of pain, as her hand gently caressed Elizabeth's face, which shone pale and sickly from the mixture of exhaustion and fear that she herself was no stranger to, _my poor, poor Elizabeth. So drained and so exhausted that her instincts, which are usually as sharp as a hunter's hound, have failed her this time._

And it was true. Elizabeth always had a rare, unique gift of simultaneously sleeping soundly and remaining alert to her surroundings. No matter how lowly their servants whispered, or how silently they tip-toed about, Elizabeth always knew when they stepped in to check on her and her sister in their sleep. At times she could even jolt herself awake by sheer force of will if there was a presence that came too close; just to check that it was one that intended no harm (her sister was always on the lookout for danger, having reasoned that the scaffold was always a close neighbour).

That she had failed to this time must have been a testament as to how weary she truly was.

Mary turned back to Philip, trying to sound outraged, intimidating, but her voice became ineffectually soft: "What are you doing here, Your Grace?"

Philip moved around the huge four-poster bed and rested one knee on the mattress. "Why, _you_ asked _me_ to come, Mary."

"Did I?" Mary raised her brows at him. "Surely you jest. For I do not remember that."

"You asked me with your heart." He placed his fingertips between her breasts.

The heart in question thudded, fast and hard. "You are not really here, are you?"

Philip only smiled a knowing, seductive little smile that set off an exquisite betraying little tingling between Mary's legs, accompanied by a sudden burst of warm wetness. This, she rather poetically fancied, was what a rose must have felt like before it first unfurled its petals in full bloom to the morning dew. As if sensing her unwitting arousal, Philip's grin widened, and he slid a hand down her breasts and splayed it across her belly. "Welcome to your dreams, Mary."

More out of curiosity than anything, Mary tried to make herself wake up, but nothing happened. If she were asleep, she remained stubbornly so.

Philip moved his hand across her abdomen, gliding on the excellent material of her nightgown. His beloved's hair shone in the crackling firelight, her round rosy cheeks were like autumn peaches ready to be plucked, her blue eyes were wide and innocent, and that damnable gown, open at the neck, showed the mouthwateringly inviting curves of her breasts. It was all he could do not to gobble her up in one swallow as he took in the tempting beauty that she unknowingly exposed to him. "Please do not send me away, Mary, not yet."

Mary liked the heat of his hand. "Why are you here, Your Grace?" she repeated her question, though this time her voice was now barely above a whisper, as if she could not speak for desire.

"You know why, Mary. You know only too well." As soundlessly as he could (the part of his brain that was still functioning rationally reminded him that his _innocent young sister-in-law_ was there as well, notwithstanding that she was still – _praise the Lord_ – sleeping soundly), he lowered himself to the bed, never taking his hand from her waist. "Your sweetest dreams are about me."

"How mortifying."

"It is wonderful. Because my loveliest dreams are about you as well. You want me just as much as I want you." He stroked his hand through her thick, curly mass of chestnut hair, and marveled at the inexpressible silkiness of it. It was so soft, so delightfully soft, and smelled of honey. His nostrils also caught the clean scent of soap and the sweet heady perfume of rose oil from her skin, and lavender from her gown. His desire, if possible, burned fiercer. But he knew that he had to take care not to frighten her.

"Is this a dream?" Mary breathed. Everything now seemed so…so…so…_real…_

"In a sense."

Mary could not believe it, but she felt a stab of disappointment. "So whatever happens, it would not be real?"

"It will be real to you. You can do anything you want, and have anything you need, without fear. You can live out your wildest fantasies without coming to any harm, or anyone ever knowing."

"Except you."

"Except me." He grinned, the hypnotic sparkle of his eyes now imbued with mischief and triumph. "And I would never tell."

Mary stared at him, noting how truly handsome her beloved was, with his eyes shining with passionate desire and the usually fierce set of his jaw softened into a gentle solicitousness. The Fates, it seemed, had delivered to her – for the umpteenth time – the ultimate temptation, as exquisitely wrapped as always, and it solely rested with her again to choose whether to accept or reject the gift.

Then again, perhaps it was wrong of Mary to think that the final say lay with her and her alone, for Fate was not done with its games with her: Elizabeth, at that moment, "choose" to give a little murmur, and turned in her sleep.

And this made up Mary's mind.

"I am sorry. But this is not the time," she said, her voice soft with sincerity, her eyes could not be more apologetic. "My love, I am first and foremost an older sister, or as some would say, a surrogate mother. My sister, Elizabeth, must be my chief priority. She has always been there for me at a time where no one else was, and her unhappy makes me unhappy too…" she uncharacteristically trailed off into silence.

Philip understood what Mary meant perfectly. Unless and until the "Elizabeth problem" – as the innermost circles of the court was starting to address it – was solved, Mary was not in the mood for passion and romance. At all.

The sense of disappointment was extreme, but it came and went with the speed of a lightning flash. For Philip was also very fond of the beautiful and lovable Elizabeth, and knew that it would be utterly wrong of him to begrudge her the love that her sister, his beloved Mary, cherished for her. "I know," he said, his tone softer, more sympathetic. "I know. But I suppose we could just…" he gestured towards the warm, crackling fireplace. "Have a talk?"

Mary's eyes widened. _Since when was he holding that enormously big basket? And…where did those stools by the fireplace come from?_

* * *

It might be just a dream, yes, and hence not real, but it was still a secret supper that Mary would never forget. The stools upon which she and her beloved sat were strong and sturdy yet strangely comfortable, made of polished mahogany wood, and inlaid with gold and silver. And the basket held the most delicious sweetmeats she had ever eaten: freshly-baked honey cakes sticky with drizzled honey, pears roasted with excessive amounts of cinnamon and syrup, oven-fresh, savoury meat-pies with a thick, golden crust, and a sparkling, ice-chilled plum-tasting mead. What was most exquisite of all was, undoubtedly, the marchpane that depicted Aphrodite arising from the foam, clothed in nothing but her wealth of copper-gold hair, a subtle hint that love was omnipresent, that it could be found anywhere, everywhere, even when one's heart was being crushed by an ocean of pain and troubles.

Mary thoroughly enjoyed every bite of the food and every sip of the wine, but of course what was infinitely more enjoyable was the man she loved sitting right next to her, unable to take his eyes off her, a tender smile on his lips, as if she was to him the most soothing, most lovable sight imaginable. She could not help noticing how chiseled the lines of his face were, beautifully framed by his well-trimmed beard, and how perfectly his eyes reflected the firelight. His close proximity alone disarmed her and made her remember the day when he had stolen her first kiss. She felt a rush of warmth rising from the base of her spine.

"Has anyone ever told you that you are more beautiful than any other creature God has ever put on this earth?"

Mary shrugged, biting into the soft juicy warmth of a cinnamon-syrup-roasted pear. "Poets. Bards. Courtiers. Almost everybody."

Philip grinned at her. "But I am different, am I not?"

_Yes. You are different. Supremely different. I have heard of such compliments before, of course, but suddenly they seem to mean so much more when you say them…_it was then that a sudden thought occurred to Mary, one that she could not help voicing out loud: "Please tell me that you are not jealous or resentful of my little sister for the love I bear her."

Philip laughed a warm, hearty laugh that seemed to Mary like a silk glove gently caressing her back. "There is no need for you to worry about that, my love, for I am not," he confessed, putting all the conviction and sincerity he possessed into every syllable. "I should be, for I am, by nature, a jealous and possessive man, but I am not. For Elizabeth is also dear to me, since she is beloved of you. And I know her to be a pure soul with a heart of gold. One just cannot help loving her."

Elizabeth stirred again in her sleep.

"Hush," Mary said quietly, her sea-washed eyes soft with sadness and love. "Don't wake her. Let her sleep. Let her rest. She needs every bit of comfort that she can get. Desperately."

The black-brown eyes widened. "That bad?"

"Monarchs are always the most difficult people to entertain. My father is no exception. In fact, I would say that he is the _worst_ of them all. He loves to live in a continual roar of excitement, and it is the chief duty of the court to ensure that he is never bored. It is a hard and demeaning task that my Beth and I, as his daughters, cannot refuse or reject. To do so is to risk our very heads," Mary said flatly, as she drained her goblet of mead to the dregs.

"I am afraid that I do not really understand it, my love. You, obviously, have been an entertainer for as long as you can remember, and yet I do not see you as weak and as pale as can be, or embracing the dreamless sleep of a woman on the edge of exhaustion. Why should it be so…well, _different_ for Elizabeth?"

A frown of pure sadness darkened Mary's bright forehead. Sighing, she poured herself more mead. "Because the gift of precocity can be a blessing as well as a curse. Beth has always been wise and knowledgeable far beyond her years, even as a toddler. She sees so much, hears so much, and understands so much. She does not say it, she might never confess it, but I know that there is a tremendously great sorrow in her heart. A sorrow that makes her believe that Death is her companion, her familiar, that He bears her close company, and that she is powerless to keep Him at arm's length. Nothing can ever rid her of that belief that He could take her away at anytime. Hence, she is always more inclined to melancholy than merriness. And everyone knows that the constant company of negative emotions can be a most tiring one, draining one both physically and mentally."

Philip stared at Mary intently for several moments, before finally breaking it with a: "It is because of what happened to her mother, is it not?"

Mary's bow-shaped lips moved, but her "Yes, it is" was almost inaudible. Most surprisingly, despite having arrived on the subject that she usually did everything in her power to avoid, Mary did not feel as uncomfortable, or as angry, or as confused as she thought she would be. Clearly, Philip had an unusually calming effect on her, one that was almost as magical as one Elizabeth had on her.

"I would confess that the Lady Anne Boleyn has always been an enigma to me. Some call her a whore whose end was rightfully deserved. Others address her as a poor woman who had been martyred for a greater cause. There are also those who say that she were a wife who had been sacrificed in the cruelest manner possible," he shrugged his broad shoulders. "There are so many different versions of her story that I do not know what to believe. But…since this is a subject that you have no wish of talking about it at all, my love, let us drop it now. Please accept my apologies for bringing it up in the first place."

"No." Mary shook her head, making Philip stare at her in wonder. "No. Let us talk about it. I do not want to spend the rest of my life avoiding the subject, simply because it brings back terrible painful memories. This seems as good a time as any to face the shadows of my past."

"As you wish, my love."

"I will tell you all that I know, my love, but know that it would not make a good story. The Lady Anne Boleyn was accused of adultery with her own brother, George Boleyn. Also with other men. She was found guilty, he was found guilty, and the men were found guilty. Lady Anne, her brother, and all those men were sentenced to death. However, in an unexpected gesture of mercy, His Majesty the King sent for a skilled French swordsman to do the deed as quickly and as painlessly as possible. She died a brave death." Mary turned her face away and briefly closed her eyes. "She was remarkably brave," she repeated. _Anne Boleyn had been truly brave. Hateful and foolish, yes. But also brave. Brave to the very end._ "I cannot say that she was not one of the bravest women I knew, for that would be a lie."

"She was guilty of terrible crimes, both against the King's Majesty and humanity itself."

"She was found guilty by the King's court of treason," she corrected him, neither of them voicing the significance of the difference yet understanding it well nonetheless.

"So…she was guilty." Philip reasoned, deciding to take a step deeper into the dangerous waters of this conversation with the woman he loved to see where this ocean would wash him to. It was a risk, yes, but he wanted _true honesty_ between _him_ and _his beloved._ He did not want her to voice out what others had either been taught to or would prefer to think. He wanted to know what she truly thought and felt about this complicated, excruciatingly painful matter that concerned her in the most intimate way. He could sense that his beloved was actually tortured by forcefully shutting out her personal feelings on this matter, and he wanted her to speak out, even if it was at the risk of her slapping him, throwing a violent tantrum at him, beating him, or even ignoring him completely for days. It was only when one was completely honest with oneself could one truly free his or heart of its burdens and taste the sweetness of release.

To his pleasant surprise, this hint did not earn him any of the reactions he had expected of her; rather, she gifted him with the strangest look. It was as if she had never really seen him before, or that no one had ever asked her what her genuine opinion in this matter was. Then again, perhaps no one ever did. Finally…"Well, anyway, it was a long time ago, and whether she was guilty or not, she was executed at the King's command, and she died in her faith, and she is dead now."

"Then she must have been guilty of all that she had been charged with. The King would not execute an innocent woman." _Scream at me, burst into hysterics, strike me, claw my face, do whatever you want, my Princess. Let it all out, my Princess. You have been suppressing your wretchedness over this matter for years, and it has cost you so dearly. Let it all out, and free your heart of the pain that it has brought you. I am here for you: now, always, and forever._

Mary bowed her head to hide her face, she took a sip of mead. "As you said, my love, the King is not capable of making a mistake."

Philip raised an eyebrow. "Do you think she was innocent?" he asked the most dangerous question of all, quietly, gently, as if it were not a question that no one would dare even hint at or even fleetingly think for fear of what King Henry the wife-killer would do if he knew, while reaching for another honey cake.

It was Mary's turn to stare at him. It was so easy for her to say the opposite of what she knew deep in her heart, especially when she thought of what her pitiful mother and she herself had been forced to endure because of that harlot. But then she turned to look at her Elizabeth, her beautiful clever soft-hearted little Elizabeth, sleeping like an Angel would amongst the clouds, with her dark eyelashes sweeping her cheeks (she noted with pleasure that they were now regaining their rosy colour) and her Tudor-copper hair shining like a halo of fire and light, and she knew that she could not do that.

It was the most difficult task of all for the daughter of Katherine of Aragon to be just to Anne Boleyn, but she had to be, if only for the sake of the little half-sister who loved her to the extent where she confided in her deepest fears and her darkest secrets to her, and who had proven to be such a powerful ray of hope in the darkest moments of her life. "I know she was not a witch, I know she was not guilty of treason, I am sure that she was innocent of adultery with all those men," she replied, her tone firm and clear, that there could be no mistake as to what she had said. She knew that there was no need for her to keep her voice down or to even glance towards the door. Be this dream or reality, it must be utterly secure, or they would not be having this conversation which could mean the Tower or the scaffold even for them, them who were a King's daughter and a Queen's cousin. Kinship with royalty, no matter how close, did not and never has rendered one immune from the cold axe. "But of course…"

"You do not argue with the King, as His Majesty must know best," Philip completed her sentence for her, sarcasm dripping from every word like dewdrops would from leaves, his smile wry and thoughtful. Between them was the fact that they had absolutely no wish to mention: Henry Tudor, the King of England, was little more than a murderer, and they lived in a world governed by his mad whims. "But what makes you so sure, my Princess?"

"She makes me sure," Mary pointed a tapered, perfectly manicured finger at her sleeping sister, smiling in the soft, doting way that she had never smiled at anyone, not even at the mother whom she revered as a saint, but only at – most ironically, unbelievably, as some might think – the daughter of the woman whom she hated more than any other person on earth. "I have said it before, said it always, and I would say it again: I cannot speak for everyone, but to me, she is the loveliest of children. The deepest legions of Hell would freeze over and the Alps would crumble before she could bring herself to hurt a fly. I know this. I am sure of this. For I have watched her and studied her ever since she was born, perhaps more closely, more intimately than she herself knows. There is no witchcraft, devilry, or evil in her. Not at all. She is, as you yourself had said, my love: a pure soul with a heart of gold, as harmless as can be, and I am sure that there is no way that Our Lord would have given her as a child to the Lady Anne if she had been as evil as she had been judged to be."

"You have a mother's love for her, my Marianne," Philip's heart went out to her, this pure and gentle young woman who lavished all of the love she was capable of on the daughter of her worst enemy. "Her mother severely wronged your own mother and yourself, yet you bear her not the slightest trace of resentment, and even gave her everything you have: your home, your wealth, and most of all…your love. And for that…I daresay you deserve a reward…"

Mary gave a gasp as Philip gathered her into the loving strength of his powerful arms and started to kiss her face, her glorious tresses of copper-streaked-chestnut hair, and her warm, cherry-sweet lips, which opened willingly so their tongues could flutter and dance ecstatically against each other.

After what seemed like an eternity of bliss, their mouths and heartbeats in union, Philip pulled away, gazing lovingly into Mary's eyes. Mary in turn watched him raptly, one dainty white hand almost unconsciously caressing his curly brown hair, as soft and as sweetly-scented as her own, then snuggled close against his chest, reveling in the feel of his well-toned muscles: hard, unyielding, yet comfortingly smooth. The scent and the feel of her itself sent a wave of luscious sensation throughout his entire being, and he sighed in pure utter pleasure.

"Just know that I am there for you, my love. I always have been, and always would be. Be not afraid to approach me for help if you or your sister needs it. I will do whatever I can for you. I promise."


	18. Chapter 18

Elizabeth also received a visitor in her sleep.

A most unexpected visitor.

It was someone whom she had never ever met or expected to in life, and had only read and heard about, and yet she had already nursed a dark bitter grudge against.

For it was the very person whom she firmly, adamantly believed to be the cause of all the misery in her life.

In her dream, she woke up suddenly, just as the clock was striking. A ruddy blaze of light shone in the next room. As if in a trance of some kind, she put on her slippers, and – as silently as she could so as not to wake her beloved sister and her most trusted ladies-in-waiting – wrapped a squirrel-trimmed Tudor-green velvet cloak around her and tiptoed to the door.

The moment Elizabeth's hand was on the lock, a voice that was at once familiar and foreign called her by her name, and bade her enter. She obeyed.

It was the grand foyer. There was no doubt about it. But it had undergone an astonishing transformation. The walls and the ceiling were cunningly hung with living green, such that it looked like a serenely perfect grove, and beautiful apples peeped out from every part like ruby stars. Blossoms of oak, mistletoe and meadowsweet spread the gentlest, loveliest fragrance all about, enhancing the impression that of a world where Nature was at its most glorious. At the fireplace a warm blaze crackled heartily. In a large chair made of polished sandalwood and inlaid with gold and silver sat a lady, her expression intense as she read from a leather-bound book. She looked the very picture of a studious and devout woman.

She looked up before Elizabeth could speak, her lips curving into a welcoming smile.

"Hello, Elizabeth," she said.

She rose to her feet, enabling Elizabeth to take in the full measure of her.

The lady was what Elizabeth would call handsome – strikingly handsome, yes, but not beautiful. Her features and her stature were too masculine for her to be seen as beautiful, with her figure so tall, her shoulders wide and broad, and her jaw so defined. She was dressed in a dark blue gown, so dark that it was almost black, and with a black stomacher that flattened her stomach and her breasts into one smooth board. Resting low on her marble-white forehead at the front and covering her hair completely at the back was a black gable hood in the style which had long gone out with Queen Katherine of Aragon. Her crowning glory was auburn, judging from the somewhat thick brows and the locks that seemed to have been purposefully arranged to escape from the house-sized hood so that they could stylishly frame the full, ascetic-like face. Her cheekbones were high and angular, and her plum-ripe lips were a dark wine-red. Her eyes were the shade of ripe hazelnuts, dark and clear, and seemed to take in everything, down to the smallest detail.

As if struck by a bolt of lightning, Elizabeth immediately knew who she was, and sank into the deepest of curtsies. "My Lady Great-Grandmother."

Lady Margaret Beaufort, who had been in life a woman of her own mind, an aberration who accomplished the impossible, a Queen in all but name, raised a brow. Having been keeping a watchful eye from the afterlife, she had known that her younger great-granddaughter was one of the most brilliant girls alive, but this…? "How did you know, child?"

"Instinct, Lady Great-Grandmother."

"I see."

For a moment there was complete silence as the great-grandmother and great-granddaughter stared at each other. Elizabeth felt a burning desire to run from the foyer, and return to the comfort of her bed and her sister's warm loving presence, but she suffered a powerful inability to move her feet, as if there was a prominent part of her that wanted to stay.

_But why would she want to stay?_ Elizabeth mentally asked herself. _Why? There was nothing that she and a spirit had to say to one another now, was there? And besides, she had no wish to talk to this woman at all…_

It was then that Lady Margaret broke the silence. "You are neither surprised, nor afraid, nor uncertain, child," she observed with quiet pleasure.

Elizabeth shook her head. "I had always known that, no matter how beautiful, elegant, gracious, and learned a palace may be, it would definitely and always be haunted by spirits, each with a tragic life-story of his or her own, and doomed to wander ceaselessly about the halls and the gardens due to their inability to let go of the past, and only permitted to leave and enter the Hereafter completely when they have utterly broken all their earthly bonds."

At this, Lady Margaret gave a low, quiet chuckle, making the little Princess blink in wonder. She had not known that this woman was capable of laughing like that, as if she was truly impressed or amused or both at once. "You might be still a child, Elizabeth, but only in years, not in thoughts and in experience. Those who say that your brilliance is beyond all comparison have spoken nothing but the truth."

_That is not true. If I really am brilliant beyond compare, then I would have been able to transform myself into the son that both my mother and that…that…that…monster wanted. I would have been able to secure my mother's throne and life permanently. I would have been able to protect her forever. I would have been able to defend her from her enemies, from disgrace, and most of all…from the scaffold. I would have…would have…_

"The dead we love would never truly leave us, Elizabeth. Your mother is alive in you, and shows herself most plainly when you have need of her." Lady Margaret said with a sad little sigh, for she had read Elizabeth's thoughts. "You have all the best of her in you. You were her match in every imaginable way, but you also have a serenity and a gentle innocence that she never had, and never would. She wants me to tell you that she meant every single word in her last letter to you: she never once blamed you for her fate or regretted your existence; she went to her death wanting only the best for you. During her last days on this earth, she was constantly on her knees before the altar, praying to God with all of her might and sincerity that He would protect you from all dangers, and see to it that you would live a long and happy life, and die a warm safe death in your bed. When she went to her death…her last thoughts were all about you, and how she would always watch over you wherever she may be. She says that you are the brightest light of her life, always her greatest comfort."

Elizabeth had to close her eyes to stop her tears from flowing. In the sudden stillness of the room, where every pop and hiss of the fire seemed magnified ten times over, she could only manage a single thought: her mother loved her. She had known it; of course, through that last letter which she had been forced to feed to the fire, but to have it once again confirmed by someone else who knew for sure was both painful and wonderful. Her heart churned. She had never spoken of her mother ever since she learnt of what had happened to her…the thought of what could have been was a torture in every sense. Her mother had been killed for the "crime" of bearing a girl instead of a boy, and, through no fault of her own, her daughter was cursed to suffer – perhaps forever, from wounds that had long stopped bleeding but were still sore, agonisingly sore.

_No, no, no. That's enough. Enough!_ "What brings you here, Lady Great-Grandmother? Should you not be in God's Kingdom, enjoying everlasting peace and bliss, and reveling in the homage and deference that Angels and saints alike undoubtedly pay to you as a true daughter of Our Lord?"

There was just that faintest hint of sarcasm in her haunting musical voice. Her father would think it blasphemous, and even her sister might shake her head in shock and disapproval, but Elizabeth was under the impression that her great-grandmother was now either a spirit doomed to wander Earth for eternity with no hope of the rest of redemption, or some dreadful dark phantom sent by Satan from Hell to plague her. She would never, _ever_ believe that this woman would be granted entry into a place like Paradise.

To her well-concealed surprise, however, Lady Margaret Beaufort did not flare up in a rage or retort sharply to the rather obvious snub. Instead, she looked nothing more than sad. The alarming thing was that the great-grandmother did not look sad on her personal behalf, but actually on her great-granddaughter's behalf.

_Just what was going on here?_

"I am a spirit, Elizabeth, but I am neither from Heaven nor from Hell. There is no place there for me, anyway, in either one of those realms. Not yet."

Elizabeth stared at her questioningly.

"Let me explain, my child," began Lady Margaret, "Our Lord is – despite what you and some others may think – a loving, merciful, and gracious God (she knew that Elizabeth occasionally thought of the Almighty as cruel and capacious, for what gentle and benevolent deity would shame a mother so and take her away when her daughter was only little more than two?). He has no wish to deny any of His children the beauty and peace and contentment of His realm. Absolutely none. Hence, no matter how grievous their wrongs in life were, there is no sinner that would be straightaway condemned to the darkness and torments of Hell when they have breathed their last. Instead, they would be made to wander awhile in the world, to expiate their sins, and to learn wisdom and grow better. But one day, at the moment where they least expect it, God would send Ramiel, the Archangel whose roles are overseeing divine visions given to the Chosen Ones on Earth and leading souls into judgment when their time came, to bring them to Him. If they have become good and pious, and had fully understood the gravity of their sins and had repented sincerely, then they would be cleansed and welcomed into the idyllic realm of fruitfulness and rest, where the air is filled with the songs of birds and rivers of wine and milk flow freely. But if their thoughts are still evil, their hearts still full of sin, and their minds still ignorant of rights and wrongs, then they would fall into the fiery legions of damnation and despair to burn for their crimes, and only every thousandth year shall God send Ramiel to fetch them, that they may fall deeper, or that they may attain redemption and His Kingdom."

_Fascinating. Extremely fascinating. I actually know now what many a sharp and brilliant mind had struggled in vain to solve for untold centuries: what exactly happens after a man or a woman has died. I should tell Mary and Father Bors about this. But how? And would they believe me?_ "And you, Lady Great-Grandmother, have the misfortune to be one of those souls who have to wander awhile before your final fate could be determined?" At Lady Margaret's nod, an intensely curious Elizabeth could not help but press on: "How long must you wander? Is there a specified period?"

Lady Margaret shook her head. "The duration is always unspecified, Elizabeth. We would never know, and it is utterly futile to ask, for one would never receive an answer to this. It all depends on the Almighty Himself. Some wander about for only a few years, others decades, but are those who have wandered for as long as a thousand years. We only have one clue, one tiny clue – if it can be called that, actually: _the more one has to learn, the longer his sentence would be._ Our Lord has an endless patience."

Elizabeth's heart stirred with pity. She felt sorry for her great-grandmother. _To be a restless, troubled spirit, wandering about for God-knows-how-long, not knowing exactly where you would go when God summons you…_but then she remembered her father's wrongs, her mother's sorrows and death, and she forced her heart to harden again. She should not feel sorry, she should not pity, and she should not feel sad for this woman, even if she was her great-grandmother and the very reason why she was of royalty.

For this woman was the cause of all the misery in her life.

Why would she say that?

Well, through her sister, Elizabeth understood well enough of her family's story to know that her great-grandmother, this Lady Margaret Beaufort, had dominated her father's childhood in the worst possible way. She had supervised his every waking moment and shielded him from every unpleasant sight; she had kept him from tutors who would have taught him of the harsh cruel realities of the world, allowed him to walk only in the gardens of her making, and permitted him to only have the best of the very best. The result was that her father had grown into a thoroughly spoilt man with a cold heart that no one could trust, and whose intense concentrated selfishness made him a danger to himself and to those around him. When someone stood in his way, denying him his pleasures, he would see that person as an enemy that had to be disposed of, no matter whom he or she was. It was beyond him to tolerate or forgive one who refuses him something that he wants.

Who should know it better than _her?_

_Her, the very child of the despised Queen who had to be executed to "save the King's manhood"?_

_And would this, all of this, had happened if her great-grandmother had taught her grandson better?_

* * *

Author's Note: Hello, everyone. Yes, I think I am almost back from the grave...for a short while, most tragically. This is what happened: National Service. As a Singaporean male, I am "cursed" to go into National Service. That is why I went "dead" for such a long, long time. I would confess to you all, though, that I am again suffering from a mixture of writer's block and a sudden lack of confidence in my writing skills. This newest short update was nothing short of a miracle. I would appreciate it so much if you all could have a look and tell me what you all think. Have I lost my touch? Have I gotten lousy? Should I abandon this story? Two things you all should remember, though: National Service means that updates would always be highly irregular and very far-in-between. I am dreadfully, utterly sorry about this, but there is nothing I can do, unless I want to go to prison. Next: REVIEWS and SUGGESTIONS would always be SUPREMELY WELCOMED. So tell me what you all think and feel. Thanks! A zillion thanks! See you all next time...


	19. Chapter 19

"You despise me," Lady Margaret said quietly, observing Elizabeth's silent, sober profile.

Elizabeth raised her head to look at her, a courtier's denial on her lips, but then she shrugged and said nothing.

_What was the use? How can one possibly lie to a spirit? Especially the spirit of a woman who had surely been the sharpest, cleverest, and most cunning creature of her time?_

"It is all right, child. I despise myself as well. Even more than you do. Perhaps…more than anyone else ever has."

The onyx-black eyes studied the ascetic-like apparition with all the cautious care their young mistress could muster, as though trying to read the spirit like a difficult book, trying to detect a masterful lie.

But there was none.

No mask, no concealment, no deceit.

Not even the most accomplished of courtiers could find fault, and say that Lady Margaret Beaufort meant the exact opposite of what she said.

It seemed as though the picture she had painted of her great-grandmother before this had been wrong, if only to a certain degree: there was no trace of the arrogant, domineering bearing that Elizabeth had expected Margaret to wear like a second skin, no haughty tilt of the nose nor disdainful chin-lifting, yet the majesty and grace and dignity always associated with royalty were there. What Elizabeth had not expected at all and was unspeakably surprised about was the sad, soft light of the hazel eyes that were supposed to be proud beyond belief, and of course the gentleness and the utter heartfelt sincerity of her demeanour and her words.

If it did not sound so insane, she would have said that her great-grandmother was genuinely sorry for everything that she had done, and was here as a…a…a – _dared she confess it?_ – A _friend_, to help her.

"Please be at peace, my child. I mean you no harm, and I bear you no ill will. I would never wish either of those upon you anyway. Never ever."

_Your grandson once said the exact same words to me, and yet what has happened? He slew my mother, irreparably destroyed my reputation, broke my spirit and my soul, and closed my heart forever._

Lady Margaret saw on Elizabeth's face that oh-so familiar war between caution and the severely diminished, yet never forgotten desire to believe, and felt the mental weight of remorse and self-loathing that had been upon her shoulders ever since Death opened her eyes and her mind to all her wrongdoings grow all the more heavy. If she still had a beating heart, it would have dealt with a razor-sharp ache.

Then again, there has no true difference between the two, was there? After all, physical pain and mental pain stood counterpoint to each other in every imaginable way. In fact, there are some who said that mental pain was actually worse than physical, given that – unlike physical pain – there might be no possible remedy, no balm that could soothe it and ease the agony that tortured the mind instead of the body.

It was her fault that her poor, innocent little granddaughter was now a lost frightened child to whom trust and belief were almost as elusive as a unicorn. Or perhaps she should say almost entirely her fault, given that she should not be so arrogant as to claim responsibility for the whole. Her grandson, Henry, had always had choices. She did not make them for him, he did so himself, be it for good or for ill. Nevertheless, he should not have made many of them, given that they had hurt so terribly his blood kin, the very people whom he was supposed to love, cherish, and protect – most notably, _Elizabeth._ If she had, as Elizabeth reasoned, taught Henry better, made him understand that he was not what made the world move and the tides ebb and flow, and that each and every action of his was bound to have impactful consequences, then he would not have killed three wives in a row, his younger daughter would be spared the pain and suffering that constantly tormented her even now, and they could have been happy together in each other's company. That blame lay with her and her alone.

She started a slow pace towards Elizabeth.

Elizabeth found herself taking a step back.

That gesture stopped Lady Margaret Beaufort instantly, and the little Boleyn-Tudor Princess fancied she caught a flash of deep sharp sadness skit across her fathomless hazel-brown gaze.

"Do always have to do that to anyone else who is neither Mary, nor Edward, nor Joseph Bors, nor Kat Ashley, child?" As soon as she said that, Lady Margaret wished that she could take them back, she would have bitten out her tongue if she could; her younger great-granddaughter looked so tragic. It was just that…the fear, the repulsive rejection had been expected, of course, but it still hurt nonetheless.

Hurt deeply.

Elizabeth forced herself to straighten up, trying to summon whatever mental strength she could, as if she were a Warrior Princess steadying herself for the battle of her life. "What do you mean, Lady Great-Grandmother?"

"You know perfectly well what I mean, Elizabeth," was the steady reply. "Distancing yourself from anyone whom you deem to be a loathsome, cannibalistic monster, unworthy of love or understanding or empathy, denying him or her even the slightest chance of opening your eyes and your mind and your heart to the truth hidden deep within." She knew that she was being deliberately hurtful, even cruel, but everything had reached a point where honesty – blunt, brutal, and direct honesty – was the only remedy now. It might be a bitter medicine, but also the only effective medicine left.

As if to prove what she had said, Lady Margaret moved closer, and Elizabeth shrank back again, a trace of wariness beginning to creep into her otherwise serene countenance.

"You see, Elizabeth? You despise me; loathe me, with every inch of your heart, soul, and being. You view me as if I were a Minotaur: the monstrous unholy product of an unspeakable consummation between human and animal, with an insatiable appetite for human flesh and blood, and endlessly demanding innocent sacrifices and terrifying peace. One would have to be blind, deaf, and mute to be ignorant of that."

_Would any other girl be capable of not loathing you if she had been in my position? Would any other girl be able to find it within herself to love, and to treat with admiration and awe, the great-grandmother who is the cause of all the misery in the family? You are responsible for all of my hopes and my dreams destroyed. Not directly, perhaps, but still a key role…_as if under an enchantment that compelled her to speak nothing but how she truly thought and felt, Elizabeth responded with something that she thought she would never use before anyone else who was neither her sister, nor her brother, nor her foster-father of a confessor, nor her governess: honesty.

"From what I had learnt about you, all you are is greed, ambition, hypocrisy, and pride." King Henry himself might have fainted if he could see and hear this: this was the very woman who had masterminded the rebellion that helped the Tudor family to come into absolute power, who had been known as "My Lady the King's Mother" and later "My Lady the King's Grandmother", and who had – in her lifetime – ruled the English royal court with a fist of iron as if she were Queen herself.

And now she, she who had always been treated with nothing less than the greatest of politeness and respect, was being slighted so by her illegitimate granddaughter?

It would have been laughable if the situation was not so grave, so serious.

"And you got exactly what you deserve. I am not surprised that you were denied the eternal rest of the Hereafter and was doomed instead to wander the earth," Elizabeth carried on, in a manner that she only allowed herself to use when she was with those few whom she truly loved and trusted: open and with emotion. She knew that she was being rude in every way, but she was past caring that. Perhaps all the acting she had been forced to perform to satisfy her ungodly father and his accursed court meant that she had reached her breaking point. At most, she would confess her sins later to either Mary or Father Bors, and then do the penance that either she or he issued her. "Not in the least. The real surprise would be if you were granted a place in God's Kingdom. This is your downfall, your poverty, your defeat. And you have no one to blame but yourself."

Despite the utterly unpleasant situation that she found herself in now, Lady Margaret could not help but give an amused smile. She wondered, as so many others – both the living and the dead – did, how one could possibly suspect that the young girl before her was not her grandson's flesh-and-blood. She saw in Elizabeth's Boleyn-black eyes the fiery, all-consuming rage that her grandson, Henry, was notorious for, and in Elizabeth's nose and cheeks, features that were the softer feminine version of Henry's! But Elizabeth, ignorant of her great-grandmother's thoughts, felt a sudden rush of mad anger at that smile. There was just something so wretchedly mocking to her about her great-grandmother's smiling silence that she unconsciously clenched her hands into fists. For a moment, she actually fancied slapping that handsome fair face, the face that seemed to her to be everything that was falsity and betrayal and lies.

"You don't think so, Lady Great-Grandmother?" Elizabeth inquired. The slightest hint of irritation was evident in her tone, the modulation of which was now cooling down from fiery animation back into sweet clear serenity. "You think I am wrong to say that of you?"

"No," Lady Margaret replied quietly, her smile fading a little at the sight of Elizabeth's enmity. She could understand a high level of resentment, of loathing, but the unusually deep depths of Elizabeth's hatred of her was as shocking as they were hurtful. "I cannot say that I am not at fault, or that I do not deserve this fate, because I do. I just do. This is, as you have said, my punishment for a lifetime of fanaticism, hypocrisy, and ambition. Perhaps it is only Death that could make one look back with such clarity on the errors of a life. I have been foolish enough to believe that God and I think as one, that whatever I choose to do is His will, and that my ambitions and my desires are utterly righteous. And hence I am being punished for that and for all the harm that I have brought to so many others. But I think that it is right for me to say that, while part of the blame does indeed lie with me, part of it does not."

"Where does that part lay then, Lady Great-Grandmother?"

"Circumstance." Lady Margaret sighed. "It lies in the circumstances that I was in back then. As you have learned from your sister, Elizabeth, my life had been – for the earlier part, at least – one that absolutely no woman would have found joy in. I was born to a mother who cared little for me because of my father's disgrace, was later married at the mere age of twelve to a complete stranger, and sent to live amongst strangers. I made a delivery that rendered me infertile for the rest of my life in that same year, and could not even hold the son that has cost me so much and meant everything to me in my own keeping. I trust that you can understand, Elizabeth, about my loneliness, my fears, and my unconscious rage at the world because of all that. In those tumultuous, dark times, I had to find some consolation, a comfort that would prevent me from breaking down and sinking into madness like my cousin, King Henry the Sixth, did so quickly. A comfort that would be constant. A comfort that would never, ever change. And that came in the form of my belief that my House of Lancaster was the true ruler of England, and that I had a great, divinely-appointed destiny before me. I genuinely believed that I was a special person in the sight of God, that I was chosen by Him to save England, and that His very power was mine because of my piety and lineage," she shrugged, a gesture that was so like her grandson that Elizabeth blinked. "But it became an obsession. An obsession that robbed me of compassion, kindness, humility, and almost damned me to an eternity in Hell. Yet it remains an undeniable fact that I was still a victim of circumstance. I am what _free will_ and _fate_ made me, my child."

There was a moment's silence as Elizabeth again did a careful study of Lady Margaret, contemplating what she had said, and taking in the humility her very presence exuded, and the tragic haunted look of the brown eyes that were supposed to be hard and cold. She gave a little sigh. Though she was extremely loath to admit, she could not deny that her great-grandmother's reasoning made excellent sense.

Perfect, even.

_And yet…_

"You are to be pitied, Lady Great-Grandmother," she said at last, now sounding less defensive and more courteous. "I cannot deny that you were, as so many of our sex had been and would always be, used by your own family as a pawn in a game of dynasties. And I certainly would not disagree that you were, at the very end, a mere piece in the game-board of fate and destiny. But my pity is all that I can possibly grant you, not my love, or my affection, or even my respect. May Our Lord and Our Lady forgive me for speaking so, but it is beyond my ability to love a woman who has proven to be so utterly bereft of warmth or humility, and who has most shamelessly polluted the purity and beauty of faith with selfishness and lack of a conscience, even if she is my paternal great-grandmother: the very one to whom my family owes so much that it owes practically everything."

By now, Elizabeth had expected Lady Margaret to flare up. After all, she had insulted her in every possible way, and this was a woman who was definitely unaccustomed to such treatment and language.

But the expected burst of rage never came.

Instead, Lady Margaret remained the classic picture of handsome, calm feminine serenity, her countenance now as surprisingly thoughtful as it was hauntingly soft.

_Elizabeth does not know it, and would protest it to the death if she did, but she resembles Henry in so many ways._

Yes, the similarities between father and daughter were nothing short of startling. Where Henry's lectures had all the violence and roar of a thunderstorm and were terrifying to behold, his younger daughter's was as silent as a monastery library and sharper than a razor. However, both royals had the unfailing ability to command attention when ordered, strike fear when desired, and above all remind whomever it was their anger was directed at that the person was addressing a King or Princess of England.

Oh yes. Elizabeth was a Tudor through and through, and she was growing – rapidly into her power.

Now she just had to know it. Understand it.

"Why so silent, Lady Great-Grandmother?" Elizabeth demanded of her. "Why do you not say anything? Do you deny any of what I have said?"

Lady Margaret shrugged, sunk back into her chair and leaned back against the carved surface, a strange tiny smile on her lips. "No, child. Why should I deny that which is true? Everything that you have said is the truth, and nothing but the truth."

Princess Elizabeth was now at a loss. Now that she had released some of the grief-fuelled anger that had cost her an excruciating effort to suppress for years, she felt somewhat calm, though not completely so. Temperance was a skill that she had cultivated since her mother died, given that the court was an insatiable, bloodthirsty monster ready to pounce and feast on any sign of emotional weakness once it was betrayed, especially if it came from someone like her. With a heart-heavy sigh that was altogether unnatural for her years, Elizabeth crossed to the chair parallel to the one Lady Margaret sat in and descended into it with all the grace she could muster. "Why are you here, Lady Great-Grandmother?"

"To warn you. Or…more specifically, to stop you and your father."

"To stop us? From what?"

"From venturing further down the paths that will ultimately destroy you both."

So that is what this is all about. A wave of exhaustion now washed over Elizabeth. She was truly weary of this. Of all this.

First…always consistently, heart-wearyingly first…was her sister.

Followed by her new stepmother.

Then…last but not least…her father's most intimate friends.

And now even her great-grandmother from beyond the grave.

Their intentions might be noble, true, but misguided. Utterly misguided. What exasperated Elizabeth so was their continued insistence on the impossible despite fully understanding the situation. King Henry the Eighth was her father, the man who had given her life: that she cannot deny. But – ah, there was that ever-constant word, _but_ – it was equally undeniable that he was a monster, a tyrant, and most of all…_a wife-killer._ The deepest legions of Hell would freeze over and the Alps would crumble before Elizabeth forgot how he had turned away from her and her mother, how her mother's head was severed from her body, and how he had denied her as his daughter. She firmly believed that his taking her back into favour was only for appearances, more for his own sake than anything else, and even now in her daily prayers she begged God with all of her might and sincerity that her newest stepmother – who had been so good to her and her siblings, and had done so much for them all – would be spared the tragic fates that had befallen her three predecessors.

So…how was it possible for her to be _fond_ of her father, let alone _love_ him?

Perhaps it was some inherent paranoia of hers, or her precarious upbringing, or that some wounds simply ran too deep for the healing, but Elizabeth always found the very sight of her father a painful one.

A most agonizingly painful one.

His ceaseless merrymaking, selfish pleasure-seeking and constant demands to be pampered and pleased were more than enough to arouse Elizabeth's deepest resentment, but above all Elizabeth just could not bring herself to trust Henry, and had the constant impulse to think the worse of him. Then she would despise herself for it, and remind herself of what Mary had taught her and that Henry was _her father_, and hence rightfully deserved her affection, if not love.

But she found it difficult, so difficult.

Obedience to him was already her limit.

Folding her hands in her lap, Elizabeth said coolly, "I am sorry, Lady Great-Grandmother, but I think that this is simply a waste of your time and energy. For you are too late. You should know that there is too much sadness and sin and loss between my father and me for me to open up my heart to him."

"You are so much like your father, you know."

Anger – _disbelieving, pure undiluted anger_ flashed in the almond-shaped black eyes. "I beg your pardon?"

"You are so much like your father, my child. Truly, there are so many similarities between you two that even those who hated your mother with a vengeance have no choice to admit that you are genuinely _his daughter. _It is becoming increasingly obvious that the gossips, the rumours about you being not his flesh-and-blood are nothing more than malicious lies and cruel spite. You are his daughter. He is your father. You resemble him so intimately – sometimes even more than your sister does, if I might add."

Elizabeth looked at her great-grandmother with her perfectly beautiful face as lovely as if it had been sculpted out of cold, lifeless marble. The colour was gone from her cheeks, her rosebud lips were pressed into the thinnest of thin lies._ Like him? Like him? I…I…I…could…be…like…that? _"I am nothing like him. I would never have done the things that he did. I would never ever have one spouse killed after another simply because the sex of our child was not the sex that I desired. I would never ever have treated my own family the way he had. I would rather die tens of thousands of deaths before I become like him."

It was something of a miracle that she had not shrieked or screamed out those words, so shaken was she.

A long and ragged sigh escaped from Lady Margaret. This was going to be far more difficult than she had thought. "I have said it before, I will say it again, and I will always repeat it when necessary, Elizabeth: he is your father. There is no doubt about it. All children, more or less, would take after their parents in either physical or mental aspects, or both. And you fall under the category of both. Definitely, I might add. For _Tudor_ is written all over your features, and evident in your air and temper. You have your father's hair, his brow, his mouth, his aura of authority and grace, his talent for the arts, and a potent inability to let go of the past."

The young Boleyn-Tudor Princess sighed.

"Mary always told me that it is the sworn duty of a true Christian to forgive all those who had harmed us, who had given ill witness against us, or has otherwise caused us pain." Elizabeth folded her hands on her lap. "She herself is a classic manifestation of this virtue, the living breathing embodiment of patience and pardon. I know it. Who should know I better than I? I, the very daughter of the woman who had brought so much pain and suffering upon her and her mother? But…I am not her. I am not Mary. It is not within me to forgive and forget. It is beyond me."

"I neither expect your forgiveness, nor do I want it, my child. For I understand well from whence stems your resentment and bitterness towards me. My actions have indeed been a very real, very major factor in your sad state today. No one can blame you for being so cold and distant towards Henry, and for being constantly on your guard with him." Lady Margaret rose from her seat and glided towards Elizabeth till she looked down directly at her in the eye, hazel-brown locking with onyx-black. "I only ask – _ask,_ not _command _– my child, that you allow yourself to, for once, grieve properly, and then let go."

Elizabeth stared back at her great-grandmother with her perfectly beautiful face as exquisite as if it had been sculpted out of cold, lifeless white marble. "I only owe him duty. Obedience. Respect. Nothing more and nothing less. I am angry. I am weary. And I am confused. People view me as a mere slip of a child, but sometimes I feel old. Very, very old. And you are one of the reasons why I feel and act this way. You cannot just come to me in a dream like this and request for me to release the hatred that has welled up in my heart to the extent that I feel it suffocating the very life out of me. Not after all this time. Not after everything that has happened."

"I know that it is an untold deal, Elizabeth. I know that it is more than what anybody should have to handle, but you are going to have to handle it the best way you know how. Your mother executed on false, nonsensical charges, your father exposing his dark, bad side for the entire world to see…this is your path. It is your destiny. He is your father. You are his daughter. Come what may, he is the man who helped to give you life. Your blood kin. This is a fact that nothing, not even Death, is able to change. He could be your enemy till death, and he would still be your father, the man who brought you into the world, your blood kin. You can storm about it, rage about it, weep about it, but you cannot fight or change it. Wallowing in sorrow, hatred and impossible imaginations of what could have been for the rest of your life would only make things worse, Elizabeth. Not only for others, but for you as well. Especially you, in fact. It would shrivel and twist and darken your heart, soul and spirit until the day comes where you cannot recognise your own self when you look into a mirror. Do you really want that to happen, Elizabeth? Do you wish to become a stranger to even yourself?"

There was a silence.

"If you have to, just surrender to your grief. Have a good cry. Throw a tantrum if you have to. But remember to come back after you have properly and thoroughly grieved, and then step into the future with a clear mind and a fresh pure heart. The past is always behind us, Elizabeth. But the future is forever ahead of us, and we can sculpt it the way we want. All you need is a little faith. A little hope. Love. It is that simple."

* * *

_Preview for Next Chapter:_

_"It will all come to nothing." Catherine said softly. "If she is declared trueborn and restored to the succession, then everything that I had accomplished would all come down to nothing." She turned from her husband and paced the room as if she were a bitch on heat, her beautiful turquoise gown releasing the scent of lavender as the skirts swished in tune to her pacing. "A spell," she muttered, forgetting in her chagrin to keep her voice low. "A magic spell. Yes, that must be it. Surely the King and Queen are under some manner of spell. Undoubtedly, that little Boleyn bastard is a sorceress, just like her mother before her. Anne Boleyn's bastard has inherited her mother's dark arts and wily allurements, and their Majesties are now under a spell cast by an evil little witch. Why else would they be so solicitous of her needs, and even considering declaring her legitimate and reinstating her in the succession after her siblings? Damn her. Damn her to Hell."_

_"Catherine!" Brandon exclaimed. "Don't say that!"_

_She rounded on him, her hands up, her fists clenched. If he had been closer, there was no doubt that she would have struck him. She was in such a passion she was beyond knowing exactly what she was doing. "Damn her, and damn you too for standing her friend!"_

_"Anyone with good sense would have known that there was always a possibility of it happening, Catherine," Brandon tried to reason with her, modulating his voice to that of a well-meaning teacher trying to impart true wisdom to a stupid yet stubborn student. "For all the King's attentions, the Queen is still not pregnant. As such, there are currently only three people in England with a rightful and justified claim to the throne. Three heirs, taking precedence one after another to honour their father. The Prince Edward comes naturally first, as the boy. The Princess Mary comes second, as England's older legitimate Princess. The Princess Elizabeth is last, as the younger legitimate Pri –"_


	20. Chapter 20

Hello, everyone,

First and foremost, I would like to extend my sincerest apologies that this is not a new chapter.

Secondly, I have a confession to make.

And that would be…you guys helping me to make the most important decision of all: should I continue with this story…or should I rewrite?

You see, I have been re-reading what I have done so far over and over, and I have to say that I have grown to be utterly dissatisfied with the way that I have portrayed certain aspects of the story. Also, there are some new parts that I would wish to add in, but the flow in general would only go smoothly if I add those new parts at the beginning and at other areas that have currently been "fixed". Last but not least, I am disillusioned with the direction that this story is heading, and that I have been unfairly unbalanced towards my own story.

Please do not get me wrong, though: I do have ideas for _both_ the new and the current versions of this story. What I sincerely, humbly ask of all of you faithful and loyal readers would be to help me make a choice: continue or rewrite?

My ultimate decision would lie with all of you, as all of you had been the driving force that had been keeping me going over the years, and for insisting that I am doing a good job when I think that I have been performing miserably.

So please help me make a choice. Thanks!


	21. Chapter 21

Had Duke Philip of Bavaria not been graced with steely steady nerves and the fortitude of years of combat, he might be uneasy at his current situation, for he had never expected that a simple hike over hill and vale to gather some of the best wildflowers for his beloved would lead to this predicament.

The three men before him were tall and sleek, muscular, and all armed with weapons. To the ignorant, they were just gentlemen skilled in the art of combat, judging by their immaculate hair and faces, their aristocratic bearing, and that they were dramatically dressed from head to toe in elegant black. But Philip was a seasoned, experienced warrior, and hence knew better. They were not gentlemen, though perhaps they could boast of gentlemanly birth.

They were assassins.

And not just any assassins, but of a kind that had been trained to such an extent that they would never stop until they had accomplished the task that their master had set for them. Philip saw it in the look of their eyes, the set of their mouths, the postures of their hands, and their stance – unmistakable features of men who would not flinch from doing things which are the darkest of sins, who kept going until there was no breath left in their bodies.

He folded his arms across his chest, smiling pleasantly. "What message does your master have for me, gentlemen?"

"Let her go or lose her altogether," came from the one who seemed taller than his two comrades and whose countenance was the most stoic, as if raping women and killing children meant nothing to him.

"Cease your fruitless pursuit, and your life shall be spared," another added. "If not, death would be merciful in comparison to what you shall suffer."

Philip laughed a low cold laugh. _You amuse me like no other can, Don Luis. To resort to such means to be rid of me? You flatter me, actually._ "If by some miracle, you all manage to survive to return to your master, tell him this: I welcome all his pathetic attempts at ridding the world of me with the fullest intention of mocking them all."

In a show of defiance, Philip blindfolded himself with a ribbon that his cousin, Queen Barbara, had "borrowed" from his beloved Mary to give it to him. It was a beautiful thing, made of the finest Tudor-green silk and inlaid with creamy pearls and silver gilt, but most of all it had the breathtakingly sweet scent of Mary's hair.

Needless to say, he took it everywhere he went.

And it was only fitting that he should use it in a situation like this; he was fighting for Mary after all.

"Your Grace," Philip, with the razor-sharp well-horned instincts of a warrior, sensed that it was the assassin who had not spoken yet. "I suggest you take this seriously. We will show you mercy."

"Nor would I show you any, gentlemen."

"Your Grace, the Princess Mary is not the only pearl in the ocean."

"She is to me."

Philip set his feet, and the assassins, realising that they will never convince such a stubborn, unusual man, exchanged glances with one another and nodded as one. Then the first assassin drew his sword and let out a battle cry as he charged directly at Philip. When his blade was only inches from his throat, he gracefully moved from his opponent's path and dragged his sword across his belly. The assassin dropped to the grass – his innards spilling from the slit faster than he could stuff them back in. With a serene innocent smile, Philip knelt beside him, and beheaded him with one clean swift cut of his sword.

Another assassin charged, this one hurling daggers as he advanced. Philip skillfully shielded himself from the first three flying weapons, then snatched the fourth out of the air and threw it back at its originator – striking him in thigh. The assassin cried out and grabbed the wound with both hands, and Philip brought his sword down, taking off not only the hands, but the leg which they held firmly. The assassin fell to the grass and was promptly beheaded.

The last assassin, who was the deadliest and steadiest of the three, could not help but betray his turmoil with a snarl. His master had been right. This German Duke was someone to be reckoned with, a formidable force whom only a fool would underestimate. No sooner than his fingers reached for the sword at his belt, than Philip hurled his sword at him as if it were a spear, piercing his chest and pinning him against a tree. Philip removed his blindfold and confronted his opponent, who presently clutched the sword handle, gasping for breath. He delivered a vicious blow, penetrating his rib cage, and withdrew his hand – with the assassin's still-beating heart in it. As the deceptive tenderness of his smile gave way to the cold darkness of a thoroughly hardened man who was immune to threats and grimly determined to stamp out all obstacles to his goal, he crushed it, as if fancying it was his rival whom he was crushing between his fingers.

_Let her go? Lose her altogether? Over my dead body! Once a Wittelsbach man meets of the woman of his dreams, he will not rest until he possesses her completely…_

* * *

"If I may venture to say so, sir, it is high time that Mary has a husband. If you could ever see your way to finding one for her…she is twenty-four now, and though she does not say it, I know that she longs for marriage and children of her own, just like any good Christian woman would."

Henry's smile went sly.

"There is no need for either of us to do that, Barbara. Reliable sources have informed me that there are currently two most attractive, most eligible, most persistent and most determined suitors who are competing for Mary's heart and hand. And I would give my hearty consent to her marrying whoever of the two she chooses. It is only a matter of time and choice. This I know it. This I promise you."

"Your Majesty is, as ever, most careful for your children," Barbara observed, seating herself on the chair beside him and taking up her needle and thread.

"I wanted to speak privately with you, Barbara," he said quietly, and with uncustomary hesitation. "There is to be a new Act of Succession, to take account of our marriage and other things. My councilors thought it advisable." He did not tell her that they had urged him to make provision for the succession out of fear that the precious, beloved Prince Edward would succumb to a childhood illness, as many children did. _They think that I am incapable of fathering more sons, given my advancing age, and they fear that an accident or an illness would befall me, plunging me into the cold grave,_ he thought, although they dared not voice those concerns, since predicting the King's death and doubting his potency were treasonable offences.

Henry took a deep breath. What he had to say to Barbara was humiliating in the extreme for one such as himself to admit to, but it had to be said.

"The act refers to the possibility of our union being blessed with offspring," he said. "I wanted to assure you that you need not fear my having any such expectations. I know that we are newly married, and it is still early days, but still…well, it will be as God wills, since we all are in His hands."

There. Finally. He had said the unthinkable, unsayable thing: though he still knew himself to be a lusty man (it was all he could do not to lick his lips at the thought of last night's lovemaking with his wife), he doubted his potency, and hence he was prepared to leave everything in the hands of the Lord, and to make the necessary preparations beforehand.

This was something that he _had_ to do. He was perfectly confident that, apart from setting his beloved boy's rights in stone, this act of his would earn him the everlasting favour and love of his daughters, especially his pretty clever tender-hearted Bessy.

Barbara's eyes filled with tears. She could easily guess what it had cost him to say that.

"I am sure that the Lord will look upon our union and your pleas with favour, sir," she hastened to reassure him. "You have been ill for a long, long time, and have only recently started out on the path to regaining your strength. And if your recovery takes longer than anticipated, well then, I am truly happy and contented as we are."

Part of what she said was true: it had only been a short time since her physicians had healed the ulcer on his leg and all his other bodily ailments, but the faithfulness with which he followed their instructions – taking their prescribed medicines regularly and exercising daily – meant that he was losing the excess weight and regaining that muscled frame that would make any woman's mouth water. He was no longer a young man, true, but there was still a chance, given his gradual return to blooming health, and his slowly-increasing strength.

Yes, there was still a chance that they could have a child, a new playmate for her darling stepchildren. If not…well, she was being as honest as could be when she said that she was content with what she had now.

The King smiled sadly at her and patted her hand.

"I have never had a wife more agreeable to my heart than you, Barbara," he said sincerely. "You are the light of my eyes, the staff of my old age. My children and I have much for which to be grateful to you. And you will doubtless to be pleased to hear that, when this new act becomes law, Mary and Elizabeth will be reinstated in the succession after Edward."

The Queen's soft comely features lit up with joy.

"Oh, sir, you can surely understand what this will mean to them both."

Henry, basking virtuously in her approval, went on, "I intend the throne to descend to the heirs of my body, and not to the Queen of Scots, my sister Margaret's granddaughter. My daughters will now have the right to succeed me, in turn, after Edward, and after them, the heirs of my sister Mary, the Brandons and the Greys. But it will never come to that. Edward will marry and have children, and Mary will too, in just a matter of time."

He smiled at his wife. "I may even find a husband for Elizabeth, if God sees fit."

"Elizabeth is telling anyone who will listen that she will never marry," Barbara confided.

Henry chuckled.

"Modesty, eh? Most fitting. We shall see about that. She will definitely change her mind when she meets someone who makes have her heart thud, her throat dry, her knees weak, and her desire rise!"

"Seriously, Sir, I think she is resolved on the matter."

"Well, I will un-resolve her," Henry laughed. "She is far too young to make up her mind on such a matter. We will give her time to grow out of it. Marriage is a woman's natural state. Just wait until she sees a lusty man she fancies!"

Queen Barbara smiled.

"Regarding Your Majesty's daughters," she said, "does restoring them to the succession mean they are to be legitimated?"

It was a pure risk, but it was one that she had to take.

There was a moment's silence as Henry's expression grew quiet and thoughtful, as if he was truly contemplating the idea – a genuine yet delightful surprise to her, given that she had expected to receive an absolute negative from him. If it could miraculously turn out well for her stepdaughters, then their positions could be settled once and for all. It was unfair to them that they should not know if whether they are Princesses or nothings, and while Mary's martial matters might soon be resolved in time (thanks to her hopelessly besotted cousin), Elizabeth's would still be of continual debate in the future, especially since no one can ever know what they are getting when they buy her, given her unreliable position, her indefinable pedigree, and of course the scandalous disgrace that had shadowed her since her mother's execution. Queen Barbara knew that her husband had not thought from their respective points of view, and there has been no one to be an advocate for them. As his wife, it was surely the right thing to do to open his eyes to the needs of his daughters, as well as the demands of his own dignity.

It seemed an eternity before he answered with a soft: "I will think about that, Barbara. I will think about that."

* * *

"It will all come to nothing." Catherine said. "If she is declared trueborn and restored to the succession, then everything that I had accomplished would all come down to nothing." She turned from her husband and paced the room as if she were a bitch on heat, her beautiful turquoise gown releasing the scent of lavender as the skirts swished in tune to her pacing. "A spell," she muttered, forgetting in her chagrin to keep her voice low. "A magic spell. Yes, that must be it. Surely the King and Queen are under some manner of spell. Undoubtedly, that little Boleyn bastard is a sorceress, just like her mother before her. Anne Boleyn's bastard has inherited her mother's dark arts and wily allurements, and their Majesties are now under a spell cast by an evil little witch. Why else would they be so solicitous of her needs, and even considering declaring her legitimate and reinstating her in the succession after her siblings? Damn her. Damn her to Hell."

"Catherine!" Brandon exclaimed. "Don't say that!"

She rounded on him, her hands up, her fists clenched. If he had been closer, there was no doubt that she would have struck him. She was in such a passion she was beyond knowing exactly what she was doing. "Damn her, and damn you too for standing her friend!"

"Anyone with good sense would have known that there was always a possibility of it happening, Catherine," Brandon tried to reason with her, modulating his voice to that of a well-meaning teacher trying to impart true wisdom to a stupid yet stubborn student. Lord in Heaven, what would Henry say if he learnt of how disrespectful his shrew of a wife was to his increasingly beloved younger daughter? What would he say? What would he do? He had to repress a shudder at the very thought of it. Princess Mary's wrath would be an utter kindness in comparison. "For all the King's attentions, the Queen is still not pregnant. As such, there are currently only three people in England with a rightful and justified claim to the throne. Three heirs, taking precedence one after another to honour their father. The Prince Edward comes naturally first, as the boy. The Princess Mary comes second, as England's older legitimate Princess. The Princess Elizabeth is last, as the younger legitimate Pri –"

"The Lady Elizabeth!" She interrupted venomously. "The Lady Elizabeth! Not Princess, Lady! God gave England only one legitimate Princess: the Princess Mary. The Lady Elizabeth is but the bastard child of a woman beyond sin, beyond darkness, beyond all evil. Why do I always have to remind you of that?! And why should there always be a possibility of her being restored to the succession?! Why would she be? All of Europe knows that no daughter of an adulterous, whorish witch could ever be a Princess, let alone become Queen of England! Everyone rues the day she was born! Oh, Lord in Heaven, I beseech of you, strike her dead!"

"Catherine!" Brandon exclaimed, he was genuinely shocked. He had absolutely no idea that his wife actually hated the Boleyn-Tudor Princess who had done her no ill at all so much._ Heaven help me, what kind of woman have I married exactly?_

"What?!" Her eyes were blazing with temper. For a moment Brandon believed that his wife had gone mad. "What's wrong with telling the truth? Everyone knows that she is the illegitimate child of a whore and a lute-player, and that the one and only reason His Majesty has acknowledged her as his own was his inability to harden enough to reject the little bastard a name and a shelter – which, in my personal opinion, is a merciful kindness that has been most wrongfully granted. She is no heiress to anything of worth, no Princess of England, no Lady, even. If she is anything like her mother, it will only be a matter of time before she sells her soul to the dark arts and consorts with the Devil."

Brandon was as white as a winding sheet. When he was able to find his voice again, he was dismayed to find that his voice had gone weak and hoarse, incapable of adopting a harsh icy tone: "God forgive you for putting us in such danger, Catherine. I will hear no more of this, and you will cease this nonsense at once. You hear?! No more! You are being nothing but cruel and merciless to a poor innocent child who has done you no harm."

Catherine whirled on him. "And you are fickle and faithless! I have been first your ward, then your wife. I have been a good spouse to you; you have no grounds for complaint: I have loved and cared for the children from your first marriage as if they were my very own, I have put up with all of your acquaintances regardless of my personal feelings, I have helped you to ensure that our estates are ran in good order, and I have given you children, though it has pleased God to take them away. As such, I deserve not only your love, but also your loyalty, your faith; you should stand by me no matter what I do or say, as a good husband should. And I say nothing but the truth. The little bastard's red hair came by solely through the work of her witch mother and the demon who lay with her, no more. She is unworthy of being a potential heiress, for she is not a Tudor even by half. And God Himself is against her: He has shown the late Queen Jane His favour by blessing her with a son! She should have died al –"

"One more word, Catherine Brandon, and I shall think that being hanged, drawn and quartered is far too good for you," a cold silent voice that almost shook the entire apartment with its intensity spoke up.

Brandon and Catherine froze. Slowly, oh-so slowly, as if speed meant everything, they turned towards the source of the voice that was at once like a roar and a whisper.

King Henry the Eighth. His blue eyes blazing, his cheeks flushed, his countenance bore an expression of untamable wrath.

* * *

Author's Note:

Hello, everyone. Here I am, back from the dead. I am terribly sorry, but due to personal and work issues, I am still unable to come to a decision as to whether I should rewrite or continue. This chapter was born from the intense guilt I felt for not updating for so long. I am so, so sorry, more sorry than I can say. My time is just not in my hands, and my inspiration and my muses are so uncooperative that I wish I could strangle them. Anyway, to be perfectly honest, this chapter is actually incomplete, just part of a rough draft that I have come up with. Please have a look and tell me what you guys think I should do next. Thanks! Until next time...


	22. Chapter 22

If it were up to King Henry, it would be the loss of a tongue and a long, long stay in the Tower for the infuriating, insulting Duchess of Suffolk. But…upon the intervention of the very person who had been the victim of Catherine Brandon's silent cruelty, it was ultimately decided that the said person would be the one meting out the punishment.

"You cannot just let it go, Elizabeth," Mary warned firmly, the application of her sister's full name making it crystal-clear that she was being utterly serious about the matter. Her blue eyes were sparkling with suppressed anger; her face was as beautiful as the aspect of a severely offended woman could be. Her former friend had gone too far, and it was only right that she should be punished for it. "You cannot just dismiss this as a minor error. A lecture, a warning, they are insufficient. Whatever penalty you impose upon her has to be a powerful one. A harsh one. One that suits the crime and ensures that she never dares to utter such slander again. Our parents will not stand for anything less. And neither would I."

Elizabeth sighed. "What would you have me do, Sister? Banish her from court forever?"

"Why not? She is hardly welcome at court, anyway. Everyone knows how disagreeable she is becoming by the day, and they only put up with her as best as they could for the sake of her husband's friendship with our father. I do not think that many would be sad to see the back of her. In fact…I daresay that there are a very great many who would rejoice to see her go in the shame and disgrace that she has brought upon herself."

"You surprise me, Sister. Truly, you do. I had believed her to be a favourite of yours."

Mary shrugged. "Oh, she _was. _But not anymore. Truth be known, Elizabeth, she had stopped being a dear friend of mine a long time ago. And do not dare blame yourself for this," she quickly added, seeing the look on her sister's face. Elizabeth might not show it, but Mary knew in her heart of hearts that Catherine Brandon's words had cut Elizabeth to the core in a manner that only she could understand. Because of their father's ungodly obsession with having a son, legitimacy had become an agonisingly painful, unbearably sensitive subject to them. The only difference – and that a debatable one – was that Mary could be counted as the more "fortunate" of the two of them in terms of parental reputation: Katherine of Aragon might have been forcibly stripped of her royal title, and died abandoned and alone, but it was an undeniable fact that she had been and would always be a Princess of Spain, a Princess of the Blood Royal. The common-born Anne Boleyn, on the other hand, and had been reduced to just a private gentlewoman when she earned Henry Tudor's hatred, and had died on the scaffold as the worst of criminals. Hence, Mary could understand the hurt and the humiliation that Elizabeth must suffer, though her sister tried her best to keep it hidden. That Catherine Brandon had tried to sprinkle salt onto a wound that was still trying not to bleed and not to sore was a blow of the lowest, most despicable sort to Mary, who was absolutely indignant on Elizabeth's behalf, and was therefore determined to not let Catherine go unpunished. "It is of no loss to me. No loss at all. It might be important to make friends at court, but one should always take note of _what_ kind of friends. Bad friends are _not_ worth having."

"I shall do the best I can with her, Sister. If you still find it unsatisfactory, could you please deal it for me then? I have never been in a situation like this before."

"Of course, Beth," Mary said, softening as she observed Elizabeth's distress. _If Beth could not deal with her appropriately, then I shall do so for her. _"Be calm when she comes…and she will be here at any moment. I shall hide myself behind these curtains, that I may observe her without her being aware of my presence. I shall draw my conclusions of the sincerity of her apologies, and the severity of your penalty, and if I find her false and the punishment too light, I shall deal with the matter for you. Just leave everything to me if you have to."

"Is Lord Suffolk to be dealt with as well?"

"No. He is an innocent in this matter. Father can testify to that." She paused suddenly, listening. "I hear them coming."

There was a knock on the door, and Elizabeth cried: "Enter".

The door was opened, and a herald announced: "Her Grace the Duchess of Suffolk."

Mary had swiftly hidden herself behind the curtains. Furious, wrathful though she was, there was still a pang of bitter sadness and genuine distress. What in God's name, she wondered, had become of the lovely young woman who had once been one of her dearest friends? What evil demon had possessed her to speak such scandalous filth of her beloved sister, who had done her no ill?

Elizabeth was seated in a chair of state when Kat Ashley and Anthony Knivert brought in the Duchess. She dismissed both of them as the guilty party fell to her knees.

Through a slight gap in the hangings, Mary watched her former friend. It had been a long time since she had had reason to take a good hard look at Catherine Brandon, and she realised that she had not changed at all, at least in terms of appearance: there was the tall, well-built stature that she remembered, the flowing auburn hair, and the regal graceful walk that befitted her noble rank. But the brown eyes were dark with unmistakable fear, and she was as white as a winding sheet.

No doubt because she was currently suffering from the uncertainty of what exactly she had brought upon herself. She was now a woman who was totally horribly unsure of which way her steps were taking her.

She noted how modestly she had dressed herself, as if to assert her repentance and humility even if there would be many would sneer in disbelief about it: a high-necked, dove-grey damask gown with very little in the way of jewellery. A grey French hood set with nothing more than silver lace pulled the hair away from the beautiful pale face, the grey veil it sprouted simultaneously concealing and accentuating the dark shade of the flow of auburn. The pretty white hands that once glittered with tokens of love and admiration were now bare, save for her wedding ring.

She sank into the deepest, most gracious of curtsies. "Princess Elizabeth."

Elizabeth nodded indifferently, her face a perfect cipher that betrayed nothing of her true thoughts and emotions. "So you have come, Lady Suffolk."

The thick dark lashes immediately lowered over the brown eyes. Mary was surprised to sense in her former friend a vitality that she never knew she had. She looked demure, but she did not deceive her for a moment. There was a fire in her, a fire that now burned for the shadows of a personal misguided crusade where it once blazed with the determination to see justice served, within her ambition mingled with her womanliness. The lovely young girl she remembered was now a strong beautiful woman whom those she hated had to fear, for she had all the single-mindedness of an animal and would stop at nothing to achieve her desires.

_The woman who was once one of my dearest, most intimate friends is truly gone, and she is not coming back…_there was a slight ache in Mary's heart as her mind registered the newfound knowledge that a friend was now a foe, but it was as fleeting as a spring breeze. Time had taught the Spanish-Tudor Princess not to fool herself with wishful thinking, and to accept realities for what they were. And she knew what she had to do: watch Catherine Brandon as carefully as she could. She must be either sent away forever from court, or made to pay an un-payable fine that would ensure her learning the lesson of this bitter memory for as long as she lived.

For one thing was certain: where she was, trouble would be also.

Catherine Brandon had never taken a good look at the Princess whom she despised above all the others; just the mere thought of her was distasteful in the extreme to her. But now, in a situation where she had no choice but to speak with Elizabeth face-to-face, she was inwardly mortified to find herself, at first glance, instantly understanding why the unworthy little bastard was Princess Mary's darling, and why King Henry would seek to bond with her again.

For the reality sitting before her was the most treacherously complete combination of the Boleyn's shameless exotic allure and the legendary Tudor glamour. The witch, she remembered, had hair as black as sin, but by firelight it shone with the subtle, iridescent purple and green and blue of lust. Her daughter's tumble of tresses was truly – as they all said – the same shade as that of the King's, like a wheat-field at its most glorious, bronze and copper and gold in the most harmonious blend. The witch's notorious eyes were intense, lush-lashed, exquisitely-black, and were forever dancing to a beguiling tune of sensuality that only she could hear. Her daughter's dark eyes were at once a flawless replica and a dramatic contrast: while they shared the same colour, shape, and even lashes and brows, in place of her mother's provocative dance was a pure clear light that accentuated the unpretentious yet potent air about her: an aura of love and empathy, an aura that inspired trust, assuring one that this was a girl whom one could trust with his or her deepest secrets. Her porcelain skin glowed, her cheeks were a soft cherry-blossom pink, and her rosebud of a mouth was as red and sweet as the finest autumn fruit. Catherine could also tell that, despite her sitting position, the child was tall for her age, slender in a charming way that spoke of robust health and regular exercise. And that was before adding the impact of her dress, which set off her figure and her colouring to fullest advantage: highest-quality satin of the prettiest shade of orange, cut away at the waist to show a petticoat of gayest green; the French hood that adorned her well-formed head was of green satin and pearls, its ethereal orange veil making her ripple of hair shine more coppery; about her tiny waist was a girdle made of pearls and emeralds set in finely-wrought gold.

It was as if the beauties of summer and autumn had blended together as one and had come alive for a visit.

Yes, Catherine Brandon was loath to admit it, but the Boleyn-Tudor Princess whom she despised for no other reason than her own insane spite was a beauty to behold, like a living, breathing work of art.

_A work of devilish art from the worst regions of Hell._

With all the self-control she could muster, Catherine kissed Elizabeth's hand.

For a moment there was silence as the two regarded each other, then Elizabeth broke it with a question: "What have I ever done to upset you, Lady Suffolk, that you should speak such slander of me?"

"I am sorry, Princess. I am sorrier than I can ever express."

"What is it that I have done to upset you?"

"I am sorry."

"How have I offended you? Please enlighten me on what is it that I have done, for as God is my witness, I am woefully ignorant of it."

"I am sorry."

"I would infinitely prefer an explanation to your apologies, Lady Suffolk. What I am asking for now is an _explanation_, not an _apology. _For surely there must be a reason why you have spoken of me as you have. There is no smoke without fire, and I would truly like to know _what_ is it that I have done to earn your spite."

"I…I…I…it was…was…"

There was another bout of uneasy, intense silence as Catherine trailed off into speechlessness. There was really nothing she could say at this juncture, after all. Her fate was already sealed from the moment Henry heard her. Now the Boleyn bastard could do whatever she wanted to with her: she could banish her, or order her to the Tower, or strip her of her rank and wealth, or _worse _– she shuddered as she thought of the torture chambers, of the scaffold – and there will be no one who could speak up for her.

Though she would never admit it, she was forced to conclude that her husband had been right. What on earth had she been thinking, slandering the bastard in such vocal and vociferous terms, when the bastard was rising increasingly high in the favour of the man who held the powers of life and death in his hands?

"You do not have to fear or worry too much, Lady Suffolk." Elizabeth spoke up suddenly, her tone even and matter-of-fact. "Your life and your person will still be left in God's hands, for I have no wish to have my own stained with your blood and tears. Neither shall I permanently exile you from court, nor condemn you to the Tower for a time, for I do not wish to have your husband and your loved ones involved in such severe disgrace. It would be to shame not only you, but also them all, in the eyes of the world. But…you shall have to pay."

Catherine's face was like a picture, so much so that Elizabeth would have laughed, had she not known that it would sound hollow. "Five thousand pounds. You will deliver the money to my governess, Mrs. Katherine Ashley, by noon tomorrow."

The Duchess of Suffolk had to keep her eyes down and her face still so that the Boleyn-Tudor Princess could not see her relieved beam of joy.

_Five thousand pounds, she says. Ha, ha! That is nothing to me. Nothing at all. Oh, thank you, Lord! Thank you, thank you!_

Unfortunately for Catherine Brandon, a certain Spanish-Tudor Princess was observing everything as critically and as carefully as she could, and it was as if the mocking relief had been spoken out loud.

* * *

Catherine Brandon had expected the storm to be blown over, but now there was a dawning realisation – accompanied by an increasing horror – that little bastard had actually been the calm.

Her "misguided" older sister was the true stormy wrath.

Princess Mary Tudor was dressed in a new gown that fitted to her lush curves and swept to her ankles; it was as blue as her eyes, rich with silver embroidery and precious stones encrusting the hem and cuffs. It seemed to Catherine Brandon that her French hood and her slippers were made of fabulous materials the colour of moonlight. _Or perhaps she was wrought of moonlight? _She seemed insubstantial as she stood before her, tall and stately and full-bodied, the chestnut hair that she wore loose beneath her hood shiny not only with brown but also red and gold as the light played with it, both of this world and not. It was as if a marble statue had come to life in the most beautiful manner. She remembered how lovely the Princess she still thought of as her friend had been, and saw that now she was far more beautiful than ever.

But her gaze was frigid and harsh as she regarded her. Her contralto voice seemed to freeze the very blood in her veins when she spoke.

"I need to speak to you about your behaviour, Lady Suffolk. But before I do, let me make one thing perfectly clear. Those evil – yes, _evil_ – letters that no good Christian woman who believes in a God of love and forgiveness would ever write are to stop. At once. And I do not want to hear any more about old scores and old wrongs. Your transparent attempts at sowing discord between me and mine will be unsuccessful. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Princess."

"One word from me to the King and it would not be just a matter of paying an un-payable fine." She cleared her throat, her unearthly eyes flashing. "You will refrain from making personal remarks about the royal family, especially my sister, _the Princess Elizabeth_. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Princess."

"In the future you will always address my sister as _the Princess Elizabeth, _even when speaking of her as the third person. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Princess."

Catherine Brandon was now beginning to seethe a little, but she kept her reaction to herself. As always, she placed the blame on Elizabeth. The one who should be disgraced, out of favour, and at risk of perpetual exile from court or a time in the Tower was Elizabeth, not _her_. How was it that the little bastard always managed to survive and even thrive where she should have withered and died?

"Finally, anything you hear from me about another member of the royal family will be deemed as confidential, and you will not repeat it or else you will find yourself in the Tower, and not for a short stay. Do you think you are intelligent enough to comply with these very simple instructions?"

"Yes, Princess."

"Any more abuse directed at my sister will be immediately brought to the attention of His Majesty the King. You, as an old hand at court, should be well aware of the rules. I trust I do not need to remind you about the prohibitions against slandering, especially if it is against a member of the royal family, do I?"

"Princess, I –"

"No sniveling. And let me stress this again: _you will address my sister properly, or not at all!_"

Catherine Brandon bowed her head. Never, in a thousand years, had she imagined that she would be threatened by the Princess whom she revered, and whose mother she had idolised. And all because she expressed exactly how she thought and felt about a pathetic little bastard whose witch of a mother nearly destroyed all that was pure and holy and sacred in the land.

Mary saw her reaction but said nothing. She felt no remorse and was beginning to wonder what else she could do to make her cry.

"My sister might be satisfied with five thousand pounds for your vile and insulting conduct, Lady Suffolk, but _I_ am not. I say that you shall pay twenty times that sum – twenty times, you do hear? Those wretched letters you have sent over the years, those heartless slanders that you have endlessly uttered, they shall be all be paid for. You should thank Our Lady that it is my sister and I who are meting out your punishment, and that we are doing so in the form of money. If it were up to His Majesty, I daresay that your tongue would have been slit, and you would have been imprisoned in the Tower till you are old and grey. The loss of money is not irrevocable, but the losses of a body organ and legal freedom are. I will give you one week from now to amass the money. You shall deliver it to Mrs. Ashley when you can. And if she does not receive the one hundred thousand pounds – _mark the sum!_ – then, you shall have to settle with His Majesty himself. Do you understand?"

Catherine Brandon lifted her chin and gazed at her with wide, frightened eyes. Her face was a portrait of disbelief and incredulity. "But, Princess –"

_"But nothing!"_ Mary snapped. "I will not repeat myself. You know where you stand. Good day."

She headed for the door, desperate to be away from her former friend's disagreeable presence. It was when she was nearly gone when she heard it.

"Why?"

It was not a demand.

It was a question.

A pure, simple question, asked in a tone of sheer desperation and utter disbelieving wonder.

Despite herself, Mary could not refrain from checking and turning for a moment.

"She was always there for me at a time where no one was. She taught me how to dream, to hope, to love, and even _to live_ again. Come what may, I know that she will never betray me. And it is as simple as that."

With that, the Spanish-Tudor Princess left abruptly, leaving the wide-eyed, open-mouthed Duchess of Suffolk staring into space.

* * *

"Father." Mary greeted graciously, sinking into a curtsey that reminded Henry uncomfortably of her mother. _How exactly was it,_ he wondered, _that both mother and daughter were able to be so dignified and so regal even in utter submissiveness?_

"Child," he said, managing a warm smile as he quickly shook the discomfiting thought off. He had been trying to forget Katherine for years now, almost as hard as he tried to forget Anne. But it was proving to be an almost impossible challenge, especially with them having each left a daughter whom, he was growing to discover, were the most exquisite and lovable daughters a man could have ever wished for. "You have come from Lady Suffolk, I believe?"

"Yes, Father. Rest assured that Elizabeth and I have dealt with her accordingly."

A copper eyebrow quirked. "_You_ and Bessy both? I had thought that Bessy wanted to deal with her alone, personally."

The lovely bow-shaped mouth curled into the rueful Tudor smile. "Beth could not bring herself to be as hard and as critical as she should be, Father, so I took the liberty to be hard and critical in her stead."

"How so?"

"Beth demanded a fine that was only a minor part of her wealth, Father. But instead of the gratitude that she should have felt, and the sincerity that she should have shown in her apologies, I saw that Lady Suffolk was secretly laughing at Beth's wrongfully-extended grace, and that her repentance was but a show. So I increased the fine such that it would be a very trial for her to raise the money, and I gave her a good scolding."

The large, well-set eyes, a lighter and more sparkling shade of blue than his daughter's, flared under the immaculately-groomed eyebrows. "Tell me everything, child, _everything._"

As precisely as a clerk, Mary recited to her father the entire event. She spared him nothing, not how Catherine Brandon had been unable to answer Elizabeth's questions, her well-concealed relief at the lightness of Elizabeth's punishment, her dismay at the astronomically-raised fine and at Elizabeth's older sister's lecture.

Mary had thought that Henry would rage when he heard in detail of the proud, haughty Duchess' relief and belittling, but he did not even comment. She realised then that he had known the news before she told him. In that case, he had a spy so well-positioned that he or she knew a piece of information she had thought was known only to her, Elizabeth, and Catherine Brandon, given that the three of them were supposed to be the only occupants in the room when the lecture took place, and that Elizabeth had left before Mary emerged to issue her warning. At that moment, it struck her that her father was a consummately formidable man, and that her wise-beyond-her-years younger sister had been right, in a way, to fear him.

For this was a man who should never be underestimated.

Henry gave a low laugh. "_Brava, _child. _Brava! _Very well done indeed. That should teach that foul, accursed shrew of a woman to badmouth our Bessy like that. You have my permission to go."

Why was it that it seemed to Mary that her father's words of smug satisfaction and tender dismissal sounded more like: "Good work, child, quite a good piece of work done, I must say. But…still not good enough. You and Bessy both have been too soft on her. A complete utter shrew like that deserves something much, much worse than that. But do not worry. Just leave everything to your father. Father will take care of _everything_."

Mary had to suppress a shiver. It was chills like this that reminded her of royal ultimatums and terrifyingly powerful monarchs. _Perhaps Beth had been right. The time has indeed come for us to go back to Hunsdon. The court has once again become a hothouse of plots and intrigues, just waiting to explode like a volcano._

"You are gratified with how I had handled the situation, are you not, Father?" She found herself asking, trying to gauge the exact level of her father's meticulously concealed dissatisfaction. She was wise enough to know that a very different emotion was brewing beneath that paternal, pleasantly smiling façade and, though she hated to see this side of him, part of her wanted to know exactly how overwhelmingly high was the tide that was about to gush over her former friend.

It helped her to read the difficult, inscrutable book that was King Henry the Eighth.

"Of course I am, child. Now run along. But do not forget tonight. I have no doubt that you and Bessy will once again be the stars of the show."

"I understand, Father."

As Mary turned to leave, her heart was strangely heavy, for she had heard in her father's words of assurance the ring of an utterly empty promise…and a vow for a vengeance greater than any she or Elizabeth could ever imagine.

_But there is nothing that I can do, even if I wanted to. Duchess or beggar, if my father wants her dead, he only has to say the word. And there is no one who could protect or help her, not even her husband. The only thing that I could do is pray for her. Pray and hope that she somehow survives…_

* * *

"My, my, one hundred thousand pounds," Knivert commented to Brandon as they rode in the woods, his grey eyes sparkling provocatively, his grin approval in its sheerest form. "Who would have guessed it of the _sweet_ and _gentle_ Princess Mary?"

It was not that Knivert wanted to sprinkle salt on a still-festering wound, but he was no friend to Catherine Brandon and, though he knew that the friend he loved as a brother was already been punished for his marital choices and his self-righteous interference, he could refrain from consistently "reminding" him of his stupidity.

Charles Brandon remained silent, displaying not the slightest sign of taking offense or even annoyance, making Anthony Knivert's brows furrow. "What is this, Charles? No witty comeback?"

Brandon shrugged, his handsome face a picture of unfeigned resignation with – _was it his imagination_? – a touch of relief. "Why should I, Anthony? You are right, as you are always right. Our tender-hearted and devout Princess Mary is truly a force to be reckoned with when aroused to great anger. Catherine may be my wife, but even I have to admit that it was nothing less than what she deserved. I had already warned her so many times about her behaviour and her language, but she just would not heed me. If anything, I am beyond grateful towards the Princesses for their exceptional kindness to Catherine…and to _me._ It was within their rights to banish her forever from court, or _worse, _which would in turn disgrace me for the rest of my they did not do so is a most true act of mercy, worthy of praise and admiration. They really are the quintessence of grace, fully deserving of one's everlasting gratitude."

_Your everlasting gratitude, perhaps. But what about that of your wife's? _Knivert had to bite down on his tongue – hard – to stop the words that were on its tip, scalding it with their bitter taste. Truth be known, he had not loathed Brandon's wife as passionately as he did now once upon a time. In fact, there had been a period where he found her to be as gentle and dignified as she was beautiful, and he actually wondered if his initial assessment of her was wrong. But now he was starting to view Brandon's wife as the worst of women. "Any idea on how is your wife going to amass that sum of money? It is a fortune, and an extremely considerable one at that, even by royal standards. And His Majesty has forbidden you or anyone else to help her."

This earned a deep, ragged sigh from the Duke of Suffolk. "I do not know, Anthony. As God is my witness, I do not know. The sale of all of her gowns, her jewels, her books, and her dower lands will probably bring her about…about…oh, I can only guess…half the sum, or perhaps only a little more than that. But then, Catherine is a clever and resourceful woman. I believe she will find a way."

Knivert nods, conceding the point. Despite his deep-rooted contempt of Catherine Brandon, he could not deny her intelligence. And she was the kind of woman who would, as Charles said, find a way once she had a will. "Are you very distressed by this whole matter, Charles?"

"To say that I am un-distressed would be a lie. She is, after all, my wife. For all that she has grown to lack as a spouse and companion, she _is_ a devoted stepmother to my children, and I have to give her credit for that. She has also helped me to ensure that our estates are run in good profitable order. But, like I said, it is what she deserved. She has made her bed, and now she must sleep in it."

"Do you regret falling in love with her? Do you wish that you had never married her?"

There was a deeply uncomfortable silence. The two noblemen regarded one another, intense, brooding, utterly serious, then the Duke of Suffolk turned his curly brown head away, as if he could not bear the solemn meticulous probing of his friend. The river which they had been riding by seemed to suddenly shine like a sword, a French sword, bringing back recollections of his greatest sins.

He had never told anyone, and never would, but he still dreamt about her sometimes. He dreamt that she was again alive, full of sensual promise and barely restrained vitality, wearing her beautiful black hair loose beneath her stylish hood in supreme defiance of conventional wifely modesty, her sleeves fashionably long to demonstrate her exceptional tastes, her accent always so beguilingly and liltingly French. He dreamt that she was twirling her little daughter in her arms, in a lush garden filled with white and burgundy blossoms, both laughing merrily as if they had not a care in the world, and that life would always be golden for them. He dreamt of her sitting with her daughter in the royal nursery, looking at the marvellous colourful pictures in the Queen's exquisite Book of Hours, or strumming a lute. He dreamt that they were going to lead a long, eventful, yet happy life _together_, where the mother would teach the daughter the art of being a sophisticated woman: how to achieve what she wanted from her man by both giving and taking, to know exactly when she should stand firm, and when she should allow the man to believe that he is indeed in charge, and most of all how to look at a man without moving her eyes and how to dance without moving her legs. He dreamt that one exotic butterfly was going to teach another the arts of enchantment and survival, and how to tend to the kingdom of blossoms wisely and well.

It was such a sweet and beautiful dream, a dream of the pure unconditional love between a mother and a daughter.

Why was it then that he always woke up from it drenched in the cold sweat of horror, his heart unspeakably heavy, and his ears fancying that they could hear the scream of a little girl as she watched her mother's head being severed from her body?

Knivert, who had learned how to read Brandon like an easy book, sighed. The subject of Anne Boleyn had never failed to make him angry and upset with his friend, but what good were reprimands or regrets now when the damage had already been done? It was then that something struck him, making him shiver though it was a summer afternoon. "You had better make sure that His Majesty never knows what hand you and your wife have played in _that matter, _Charles. You know him better than I do. He is at his worst when he discovers that he has been ill-used. If he ever learns of what you two have accomplished through him…your lives will be in the gravest of dangers."

* * *

Katherine Howard moaned and playfully laughed as Sir Thomas Seymour feasted on her bare breasts, taking a particular delight in licking her rose-coloured nipples. They lay in his bedchamber, alone, their stark-naked bodies sleek and shiny with the aftermath of incredible sex.

"I thought my brother warned you to stay away from me. He said that your pleasures were meant for the King and the King only," Thomas observed, shifting up onto his elbow and running his finger along her sensuous lower lip. Their lovemaking had been an intricately erotic and passionate session of pleasure and pain. _No wonder the Howard women are famed for beauty, sensuality and forwardness. It is their rightful due…_

"Yes, he did," Katherine replied, licking her lips as she took in the seductively handsome profile of one of the court's most notorious heartbreakers. She had entertained numerous men in her bed before, of course, but none of them could boast of the insatiability and stamina of this one, who matched her mettle in every imaginable way. "But now he does not care. He is too busy worrying about what the King's anger over the Duchess' disrespect towards the Lady Elizabeth could imply. Besides, I do not think he would object to my having a little fun every now and then."

"Fun?" Thomas raised an elegantly arched eyebrow, the grin on his lips more roguish than ever. "Fun? Is that really all that is between us?"

Katherine laughed a merry, light-hearted laugh. "How else would you address it, Sir Thomas? Foreplay before the act of procreation? The most sinful pleasure the Devil has ever introduced to beguile and tempt humanity into his darkness? Or…a relief-ritual?"

They burst into peals of amused, wondering laughter, and then Thomas took Katherine into his arms, adjusting so that they accommodated each other comfortably, and his hands brought hers to his chest so that they could seek the strong steady heartbeat and explore the smooth, steely-muscled flesh. For all of his flaws, Thomas Seymour was not the most vicious man, driven as he was by carnal needs. He would confess to having a strange and irrational obsession with the little Lady Elizabeth, but that was another story altogether. And there was something about Katherine Howard that had touched him, in a way that none of the many women whom he had lured into his bed ever had.

Though he would never admit it, he believed it would be a sorry, sorry day for him when the King took her as his own.

"You know, Sir Thomas, your brother is without doubt the most fascinating man I have ever been privileged to meet." Katherine commented, wholly ignorant of the path that her lover's thoughts had strayed to, her countenance and her voice taking on a surprising seriousness that no one would have believed her to possess. "You see, I have learnt to read how people stand. His Grace the Duke of Suffolk, Her Grace the Countess of Hertford, Sir Francis Bryan, and even Mr. Cromwell, I know their true beliefs, even if they try their utmost to hide them. But your brother, the Earl of Hertford, remains a mystery to me. Who knows what _he_ truly believes? What _he_ genuinely thinks?"

_How strange is it that such a young ripe beauty like her can be so simultaneously silly yet clever, _Thomas thought to himself, his experienced fingers dancing on the pink-tinged porcelain skin that he had thoroughly savoured just moments ago._ One moment, she is just like any other pretty young girl, as green and as fresh as spring, thinking of nothing but rich gowns and fine jewellery and grand parties. The next, she is a clever and careful woman who seeks to understand her masters better, so that she could firmly grasp the true natures of the people whom she is working for…_ "Would you like me to tell you, Katherine?"

Astonished by the sudden, unfeigned tenderness of his voice (having been taught at a hard school how to be a flatterer and a liar from an early age, she had no problems with distinguishing truths from lies), Katherine raised her head a little from his hard, muscular chest to look at him, emerald-green eyes locking with the purest blue of a summer sky. She had not thought that an ambitious, lusty man like him would actually possess a tender side, and one that she had managed to stir. Throat too tight to speak, she nodded.

Thomas studied Katherine, amazed by how a consummate seductress who knew so much about men, about how to read their wants and desires, how to tantalise and provoke, and how to string along and tease, could look as innocently beautiful and wonderfully cherubic as a child. It seemed to him that if he wanted to find a woman who combined the qualities of purity and sensuality in the most perfect, most immaculate manner, then the very epitome of what he had been searching for was now in his arms, waiting patiently for his answer. "My brother believes in himself. In his destiny. Our nephew, the Prince Edward, is the key to his destiny. Nothing will stand in his way."

"If he already has a key, a chair of authority, and a right to whisper into the ear of the greatest power, why is he still so against the illegitimate daughter of a criminal? Why does he view the Lady Elizabeth as an obstacle that has to be eliminated at all costs? I would have thought that, in comparison, it is the Princess Mary whom he should regard as the greater, more dangerous threat, especially if you consider her lineage on both sides, and the people's adoration for her and her mother's memory."

_This is no silly, inexperienced, green girl, good for nothing but the pleasures of bed and board, as my fool of a brother persists in believing. This is a wise and intelligent woman whom we all had underestimated because of her air of vibrant youth and childish innocence._ "He will stop at nothing to be rid of the Lady Elizabeth because he feels guilty. He would never confess it, perhaps not even to God Himself on the Day of Judgment, but he knows in his heart of hearts that the Lady Anne Boleyn was executed for crimes that she did not commit, and as he had ensured that he would be the very one who would profit _the most_ from her downfall, he feels that he is indirectly responsible for her death, and that his hands are stained with her blood. And he does not want to feel that. He hates it. He is hard-faced but not hard-hearted. He cannot stand bearing the guilt of murder, however indirect it might be. That is why he cannot even bear the sight of the Lady Elizabeth: she is a living, breathing, flesh-and-blood, daily reminder of his guilt, of the price that innocent people had to pay for him to soar to the highest heights. He believes that, with the Lady Elizabeth gone for good, the burden of guilt will be lifted from his soul, and only then would he be free."

The green eyes were sparkling now with attentive fascination; it was all Thomas could do not to get drowned in them. "I see. But how about you and the late Queen Jane? Were you two…_sympathetic_ to his cause? And what about the Princess Mary?"

It was a calculated risk, yes, and a daring one at that, considering that the man she was currently bedding was the uncle of the future King of England as well as a powerful nobleman in his own right, and the said deceased woman was the Queen whose memory was still being kept alive and honoured as she was the only wife who had accomplished at giving England the much-desired male heir. But it was one that she had to take. She had to determine as many true natures as possible.

It was one of her methods of survival.

But Thomas Seymour was not offended, not in the least. In fact, he was more impressed than ever with the boldness of this beauty. Others might call it stupidity, but it seemed more like a razor-sharp intellect to him, her going straight to the most obvious with such accuracy, so utterly unlike the empty-headed flirts who had warmed his bed in the past. "Whatever was it that Edward did, Jane and I knew nothing of it, and we played no roles in it," he replied, the sincerity of his tone and the straight directness of his eyes revealing that he had spoken the honest truth – a rare moment. "Jane was busy nursing our increasingly ill father back then, and I, on the other hand, had better things to do than to go along with Edward in his endless schemes," he caressed Katherine's belly, making her shudder in rising desire. "Much, _much_ better things that all involve _pleasing_ people, not _breaking_ them. I have never interested in Edward's schemes, and I have never wanted any part of them. And as for the Princess Mary…well, my brother has no particular grievance with her, and while he might be an arrogant ass, he is not foolish enough to court the wrath of the Emperor of Spain. When our nephew becomes King, however, then it might turn out differently, but until then, he prefers to leave her alone _so long as she stays out of his way_."

"So he is just simply waiting for the perfect time to strike." Katherine said, as she unconsciously opened her legs to invite Thomas' hot touch again.

"You can say that," Thomas was now caressing his new lover's sensitive areas with passionate fervour, his eyes darkening with desire as she stirred and sighed and gasped to his expert touch, his manhood growing hard and wanting as he caught the scent of her arousal. "But enough of all that. Come on, Katherine; make a man out of me. Love me."

* * *

Author's Note: Hello, folks. I have decided to do the very best that I can...for the moment. Thank goodness my muses have suddenly turned "kind", enabling me to produce yet another chapter. Hope you all find this satisfactory, and remember that I am always open to suggestions and reviews. Thanks! Until next time...


	23. Chapter 23

Author's Note:

Hello, everyone. I have been feeling increasingly guilty about "going dead" for so long, so as compensation, I am offering an excerpt of what is to come, as evident below. I am still considering as to whether or not I should rewrite this tale, or leave it as it is and carry on, given that all the suggestions I have received favour both options equally. Ultimately, I have to confess that I am entirely at the mercy of my Muses, and my motto is: If I do not feel it, then I cannot do it. This hopefully explains the inconstancy of the updates, and the inconsistency of the length and depth of the chapters.

Since you people are my primary driving force, I will be making another offer: tiny titbits of what is to come, if I were to carry on. But please always bear in mind that these titbits and excerpts are prone to changes, and _might_ be discarded altogether if I choose to rewrite.

Titbits:

1. Father Joseph Bors is hiding dark secrets of his own. I can only assure you that he means Elizabeth no harm, and he genuinely loves her as a father would his daughter, but he is not human.

2. The necromancer whom Katherine Howard consulted will join in what you people would call the "Big Bad Gang".

3. Mary will have an extremely unexpected confrontation with someone whom she believed was suffering in Purgatory for her sins, and forced to reflect upon the truths about her "sainted" mother and the past.

Of course, please do not forget that your reviews are what keeps me going, and that I am always open to suggestions. Until next time...

* * *

_Edward Seymour's dining room was well-suited to a nobleman of the highest rank, brother of the former Queen of England, and uncle to the future King. The table was polished English walnut, with matching chairs set with Tudor-green damask cushions. The windows, which looked out over the lush gardens and the beautiful sparkling river, were treated with embroidered velvet drapes. The marble fireplace was wide, deep, and alive with an afternoon blaze. Above the mantel and along the other walls hung portraits of the Seymour family, one Edward especially liked of himself done by the famously talented Hans Holbein._

_Servants moved in and out of the room, bringing in new dishes and removing those that had been emptied. Edward and his wife, Anne, dined in silence, he at the head of the table, she to his right. After a few minutes he gestured for all of the servants to leave._

_Alone with the wife whom he simultaneously loved yet hated, belittled yet respected, he spoke, "I trust you have heard."_

_Anne smiled a sly smile and tilted her head. Very much like Margaret Beaufort, Anne was more likely to be described as handsome, than beautiful. She had the lovely skin, fine immaculate hair, and graceful bearing that were basic attributes of the nobility, but there was a certain indefinable quality that gave her features an air of masculinity, and her eyes were as sharp as a cat that missed nothing. She had known what subject Edward was going to broach long before they dined. Men, she had sneered to herself then, the stupidest, most predictable of God's creatures. They always think themselves the more superior sex, and that we women were born for one purpose and one only, but it is actually we who are the puppeteers! We are the ones who write the script, set the stage, pull the strings, and are in charge, not them! "About our poor, dear Duchess of Suffolk, of course."_

_Edward took a sip of ale. "Precisely."_

_"Why? You pity her? Intend to help her?"_

_"Of course not, my dear. I just meant to say that this is a sign for you to stay away from the Lady Elizabeth and the Lady Mary."_

_Anne glanced at him, and then dropped the marchpane biscuit she had been intending to savour on her plate. The relationship between them had always been a strange, unusual one: they hated each other as much as they lusted for each other, and yet they were so attuned to each other's moods, so understanding of each other's nature, that questioning was practically a thing unknown in their shared context. She already knew what he was up to, but still… "The Princess Mary and the Princess Elizabeth have been good friends to us, Edward. As far as I know, they have done us no ill. They always greet and communicate with us with respect and a polite smile."_

_"All in the past, Anne, all in the past," Edward said through gritted teeth. It was no secret that he utterly hated it when someone addressed his nephew's half-sisters by the titles that they were stripped of because of their mothers' disgrace, given that it always stirred within him memories that cost him an excruciating effort to bury, and emotions he did not want to feel. "You are a wise and intelligent woman, my dear. You can see it. No, surely you have seen it already. They have been becoming increasingly dangerous."_

_"Not to you, surely. Not with our nephew. He is, after all, their little brother. And anyone can see that he is the absolute apple of their eye. They adore him beyond words. Besides, who could doubt that our boy is first in line for the throne?"_

_Edward shook his head. "My spies have informed me that there are certain important people at court who feel a "scruple of conscience" over the fact that Jane, may she rest in peace, was never ever formally crowned as Queen, unlike the Dowager Princess Katherine of Wales, and the Lady Anne Boleyn – God damn her, the evil witch. Hence, the succession could still remain a question, and we can afford to take no chances. None at all. The King has taken them back into his favour, in which they are rising increasingly high. You yourself have seen it: he has been loading them with jewels from the Treasury, and has ordered the best tailors and the most skillful seamstresses of London to see to it that they are always dressed in the very finest materials, in the very latest fashions. Jesus Christ, there is even talk of him considering bestowing upon them new titles, new fortunes that no one could take away from them! Besides, you know what happened: he would have had Lady Suffolk's tongue slit, and then have her sent to the Tower for a stay in which anything could have happened. But he, a man who does not usually change his mind once it is set, actually ruled that it should be his daughters who will be the ones to mete out punishment. And word is that he is pleased and proud with their final decision. This is an ample acknowledgement from him of their ability to judge rights and wrongs, and his trust in their capabilities of making appropriate decisions. This is a sign that they are definitely dangerous, even if they do not want to be, and they will only continue to be more so. I shall have to destroy them both."_

_"Pity that you feel that way," Anne gave a little sigh, though the dark sardonic smile that was one of her most distinguished attributes was still on her lips. "A true pity, Edward. They are two of the very few who do not see me as a total, complete she-wolf. I am very, very fond of them."_

_"I am sure that there will be many others who will come to realise eventually that they were mistaken in their perception of you, my dear, and you will have your pick of new favourites from them in times to come."_

_Anne put her elbows on the table and wove her fingers under her chin. "Power, wealth, royal favour, they mean everything to you, right, Edward? They are the only things that truly matter in your heart. And you will sacrifice anything for them. Even innocents who had never done you any ill and most probably never would."_

_Edward's answer was a cold dark grin. "You might think me a man of stone and ice, Anne, but I am simply being realistic. It is an indisputable fact that we live in a world where the unexpected always occurs, the unintentional unfailingly takes place, and where one's main method of survival is to be has to be hard and ruthless and cold."_

_"I cannot deny that," Anne sat back in her chair. "Not entirely, at least. But know this: as long as you think that, please do not expect me to be faithful to you, or to help you. If you really want to pit yourself against the two Princesses, go ahead, but do not say that I did not warn you. Now" – she smiled sweetly – "please leave me in peace with my sweets. Nothing makes them more delectable than absolute blissful silence."_


	24. Chapter 24

Edward Seymour's dining room was well-suited to a nobleman of the highest rank, brother of the former Queen of England, and uncle to the future King. The table was polished English walnut, with matching chairs set with Tudor-green damask cushions. The windows, which looked out over the lush gardens and the beautiful sparkling river, were treated with embroidered velvet drapes. The marble fireplace was wide, deep, and alive with an afternoon blaze. Above the mantel and along the other walls hung portraits of the Seymour family, one Edward especially liked of himself done by the famously talented Hans Holbein.

Servants moved in and out of the room, bringing in new dishes and removing those that had been emptied. Edward and his wife, Anne, dined in silence, he at the head of the table, she to his right. After a few minutes he gestured for all of the servants to leave.

Alone with the wife whom he simultaneously loved yet hated, belittled yet respected, he spoke, "I trust you have heard."

Anne smiled a sly smile and tilted her head. Very much like Margaret Beaufort, Anne was more likely to be described as handsome, than beautiful. She had the fine luminous skin, glossy healthy hair, and graceful bearing that were basic attributes of the nobility, but there was a certain indefinable quality about the slant of her sharp catlike eyes and the tilt of her chin that gave her an air of masculine formidability. She had known what subject Edward was going to broach long before they dined. _Men, _she had sneered to herself then, _the stupidest, most predictable of God's creatures. They always think themselves the more superior sex, and that we women were born for one purpose and one only, but it is actually __we __who are the puppeteers! __We__ are the ones who write the script, set the stage, pull the strings, and are in charge, not them!_ "About our poor, dear Duchess of Suffolk, of course."

Edward took a sip of ale. "Precisely."

"Why? You pity her? Intend to help her?"

"Of course not, my dear. I just meant to say that this is a sign for you to stay away from the Lady Elizabeth and the Lady Mary."

Anne glanced at him, and then dropped the marchpane biscuit she had been intending to savour on her plate. The relationship between them had always been a strange, unusual one: they hated each other as much as they lusted for each other, and yet they were so attuned to each other's moods, so understanding of each other's nature, that questioning was practically a thing unknown in their shared context. She already knew what he was up to, but still… "The _Princess_ Mary and the _Princess_ Elizabeth have been good friends to us, Edward. As far as I know, they have done us no ill. They always greet and communicate with us with respect and a courteous smile."

"All in the past, Anne, all in the past," Edward said through gritted teeth. It was no secret that he utterly hated it when someone addressed his nephew's half-sisters by the titles that they were stripped of because of their mothers' disgrace, given that it always stirred within him memories that cost him an excruciating effort to bury, and emotions he did not want to feel. "You are a wise and intelligent woman, my dear. You can see it. No, surely you have seen it already. They have been becoming increasingly dangerous."

"Not to you, surely. Not with our nephew. He is, after all, their little brother. And anyone can see that he is the absolute apple of their eye. They adore him beyond words. Besides, who could doubt that our boy is first in line for the throne?"

Edward shook his head. "My spies have informed me that there are certain important people at court who feel a "scruple of conscience" over the fact that Jane, may she rest in peace, was never ever formally crowned as Queen, unlike the Dowager Princess Katherine of Wales, and the Lady Anne Boleyn – God damn her, the evil witch. Hence, the succession could still remain a question, and we can afford to take _no_ chances. _None at all._ The King has taken them back into his favour, in which they are rising increasingly high. You yourself have seen it: he has been loading them with jewels from the Treasury, and commanded that the best of the court dressmakers are to see to it that they are always clothed in the most excellent materials, in the very latest fashions. Jesus Christ, there is even talk of him considering bestowing upon them new titles, new fortunes that no one could take away from them! Besides, you know what happened: he would have had Lady Suffolk's tongue slit, and then have her sent to the Tower for a stay in which _anything_ could have happened. But he, a man who does not usually change his mind once it is set, actually ruled that it should be his daughters who will be the ones to mete out punishment. And word is that he is pleased and proud with their final decision. This is an ample acknowledgement from him of their ability to judge rights and wrongs, and his trust in their capabilities of making appropriate decisions. This is a sign that they are definitely dangerous, even if they do not want to be, and they will only continue to be more so. I shall have to destroy them both."

"Pity that you feel that way," Anne gave a little sigh, though the dark sardonic smile that was one of her most distinguished attributes was still on her lips. "A true pity, Edward. They are _two_ of the very few who do not see me as a total, complete she-wolf. I am very, very fond of them."

"I am sure that there will be many others who will come to realise eventually that they were mistaken in their perception of you, my dear, and you will have your pick of new favourites from them in times to come."

Anne put her elbows on the table and wove her fingers under her chin. "Power, wealth, royal favour, they mean everything to you, right, Edward? They are the only things that truly matter in your heart. And you will sacrifice anythingfor them. Even innocents who had never done you any ill and most probably never would."

Edward's answer was a cold dark grin. "You might think me a man of stone and ice, Anne, but I am simply being realistic. It is an indisputable fact that we live in a world where the unexpected always occurs, the unintentional unfailingly takes place, and where one's main method of survival is to be has to be hard and ruthless and cold."

"I cannot deny that," Anne sat back in her chair. "Not entirely, at least. But know this: as long as you think that, please do not expect me to be faithful to you, or to help you. If you really want to pit yourself against the two _Princesses,_ go ahead, but do not say that I did not warn you. Now" – she smiled sweetly – "please leave me in peace with my sweets. Nothing makes them more delectable than sweet, utter silence. Especially when it comes from you."

* * *

If there was one thing that little Prince Edward was beyond fond of, it was either one of his older sisters letting him sit on her lap and then sing him a lullaby in her cultured well-developed voice.

It was so much easier for him, a three-year-old boy who was always restless and vital and curious about everything, to have his afternoon rest that way.

One would have thought that it should have been his governess, Lady Bryan, who would be the one to sing him to sleep. But after a few heroic valiant attempts by the aging lady that left the young royal heir sleepless and irritable, and made everyone realise that even the well-trained and accomplished Lady Margaret Bryan had her limitations, Prince Edward had, in a show of disdain that delighted his father with its remarkable resemblance to him, tossed his head and remarked: "My sisters sing a million times better than you do. To compare your voice to theirs, My Lady, is like comparing a crow to a nightingale."

Hence, it was ruled that the royal sisters would take turns with singing their brother to sleep – a task that Lady Bryan, admittedly, relinquished with a high degree of relief, though her pride as royal governess did suffer quite a blow with the criticism she received from England's current and future Kings.

As Edward's sisters willingly took their turns in lulling their brother to sleep, it did not take long for everyone to realise that the difference in their voices was as stark and dramatic as that of their looks. Yes, both sisters had been trained by the most efficient of tutors since early childhood, but the difference was there despite their sharing the same well-modulation and harmony. Mary's was contralto, the voice of a mythological bard, rich and deep and strong, yet it also possessed the gentle flow of a mild river, making it at once tender and powerful. Her choice of songs was, of course, typical of her devout half-Spanish nature: either Bible hymns or the foreign lullabies that her late mother had sung to her long ago.

Elizabeth, on the other hand, was a stunning alto the hauntingly lovely quality of which could touch a heart and even reduce one to tears if it wished to. Her preference spoke a volume of her true-hearted love for simplicity and elegance: un-embroidered homely songs that the country folk employed to lull their children to sleep, but she always took care to amend a word here or add a verse there to make it pleasant, agreeable, and even pretty to royal ears, and she either sang it in English or in Welsh (the language which she had a special gift with), as if to add a touch of mystery and intrigue to her lullabies.

For today, however, the song that she sang was one that Edward, despite never hearing it before, was certain that it had never been sang or even heard of by any others before.

_"Soft wind sighs, night whispers_

_ These I dearly remember_

_ And a song someone sings_

_ Here with me again, my darling_

_ Someone holds me safe and warm_

_ Secure against the darkest storms_

_ Pure and true is this love_

_ For it shall never fade_

_ Blessed and kissed by the Lord of All_

_ This song is my promise to you_

_ You will be, one day_

_ Here with me again, my darling_

_ Someone holds me safe and warm_

_ Secure against the darkest storms_

_ Pure and true is this love_

_ For it shall never fade_

_ Stronger than time, stronger than death_

_ Eternal and evergreen as Our Saviour's love_

_ These I hold close to my heart_

_ These I dearly remember_

_ And a song someone sings_

_ Here with me again, my darling…"_

Edward let out a sleepy small chuckle as Elizabeth gently laid him down on his bed, a slim-fingered perfect hand brushing away the tendrils of silver-blond hair from his forehead with the tenderness reserved specially for him. "That was such a beautiful song, Bessy. Would you sing it again, please? I promise to go sleep after you have. Really, I would. Please?"

Elizabeth laughed the feminine version of the legendary infectious Tudor laugh, and sung it again.

Edward smiled and gave a little yawn. "It is really a most beautiful song, Bessy. The most beautiful one I have ever heard. Happy and sad all at once. Did you compose it yourself?"

For just a moment only the sleepiness loosened its hold on Edward as his child's heightened awareness caught what occasionally skirted Bessy's exquisite features: the strange little detached empty look that suggested that it was not his sister there, but merely a shadow of herself, a beautiful shell the spirit of which was gone for unknown reasons. Despite himself, he shivered. If he had not known better, he would have said that it was as if his beloved sister, his dear Bessy with their Papa's fabulous red hair and those dark mysterious eyes and the wonderful charming voice, wished to be gone from this world altogether.

But then the spell was quickly broken by Elizabeth's smile, only now it was the courtier smile that served to assure peace when the reality was chaos. "No, Edward, I did not. Someone taught me this song."

"Who? Mary?"

Elizabeth shook her head. "No." Her voice was surprisingly soft and sad. "Not Mary, not the Queen, not any of the governesses, not any lady that you know. It was someone else, little brother. Someone that you have never met, and will never know. But…that someone was beyond special to me. She still is, actually. Always will be. Perhaps…if God permits it, I will be able to tell you about her one day. But not now. Now's the time for you to lie down, close your eyes, and go to sleep."

"She must be a wonderful person to come up with such a wonderful song like that," Edward remarked, before closing those startling Seymour-blue eyes.

_Oh, she was, little brother, she was…_

If Elizabeth closed her eyes and focused, she could see that _someone_, always stunning and stylish in those low-cut dark gowns trimmed with pearls, braid, and priceless furs, the crescent-shaped hood pushed back to show her rich midnight hair, and about her neck, the pearls with the gold "B" she remembered so well. She even fancied she could hear the tinkling bell-like laughter as the woman swung about her child in her arms as if the growing child weighed nothing.

_Mother, mother, oh, mother…_suddenly, a sharp pain shot through Elizabeth like fire, forcing her to nip her lip with her teeth to suppress the cry of agony that was on her tongue's tip (she did not want to startle her brother awake) and to grip the left side of her chest tightly.

_This is strange,_ she mused, as she shut her eyes and waited for the fit to pass. _So strange. What is wrong with me? I have never had these…these…fits of pain before. Yet I have been getting increasingly troubled by them for the past two days. What is happening to me? Am I getting sick or something? Perhaps it is time for me to have a secret consultation with the physicians…_

* * *

The gardens were surprisingly silent for summer, but it suited Mary's mood just fine. She needed to be left alone with her thoughts, to come to terms with the difficult fact that the woman who had once been one of her truest friends was now as good as her enemy. She cut a sober figure as she glided with her innate grace, her hands folded across her waist, her head lowered, and the usual bloom on her cheeks now gone with the turmoil that she was in.

Perhaps she was being too sensitive, but if there was one lesson that Mary had learnt through the hard way, it was that in a royal court, it was easier than breathing to make enemies, but almost impossible to make _true friends_ whom you could really bare your heart and soul and mind to, and the realisation that one such friend had now become a foe in a misguided quest was astonishingly painful. The sense of loss, now that she had dropped her unconscious defenses to feel its impact, was both expected and unexpected. _It is like an aching emptiness. A hollow sensation that is neither too intense nor too faint, but still there nonetheless. Those who said that your dearest friends can actually become your bitterest foes had spoken nothing but the truth. _

"There is nothing that is _constant_ in this world, except the _change_," she recalled Father Bors saying once. "So it is always wise to have an open mind, an open heart, and an open soul, such that the change will not overwhelm you completely by catching you off your guard. If not, you will find life itself the most difficult thing of all to accept." _Wiser words had never been spoken, _Mary mused,_ the change is the one and only thing that is constant in this world and all we can do is learn to accept it, and try our best to adapt to it. If not, we will often be torturing ourselves…_

Suddenly, a handsome pair of finest goatskin boots set with great buckles of rubies and gold stopped before her.

She looked up slowly.

True enough, it was Philip of Bavaria, looking every inch a refined elegant nobleman in sleek velvets and rich brocades. His broad shoulders stretched the costly materials taut and his doublet outlined the well-toned muscles of his chest and stomach as completely as his hose etched every sinew of his sculpted thighs and calves. Despite herself, Mary's eyes darted guiltily to the gold brocade-covered codpiece where his potent loins joined. Then her eyes met his frank perusal of her body with the usual resounding crack of energy which leapt between them.

His brown eyes, bright with an ethereal, otherworldly light, were warm with the honest concern of a man hopelessly in love.

"Are you all right, Princess?"

Mary tried to smile her habitual gracious smile, but found that she could not. "I did something that I hoped I never would have to do."

"The fine and the exile you ordered." He guessed at once. "It is all over the court. Why, do you regret it, my Princess?"

The stern and formal Mary of usual might have instantly protested at his deliberate use of an endearment, but the confused, sad, and increasingly weary Mary that she was now choose to dismiss it. She was not in a mood to barter with anyone, least of all this strange, wonderful, infuriating man who possessed the unspeakably terrible power to invade her dreams and to arouse her desires and to dredge from her own mind the truths she already knew but hesitated to speak. "She used to be one of my best friends, one of my most trusted confidantes," she confessed simply. "There was even a time where I almost looked to her as the older sister I never had. But now…"

"When the Lord closes a door, somewhere he opens a window, my darling Princess." Familiarly he took Mary's hand and tucked it in the crook of his elbow and led her to walk beside the river, which flowed over the pearl-like stones with a melody that was nothing short of delightful. The cool wind stirred, but Mary's hand, trapped between his well-muscled arm and his lean powerful body, grew comfortingly warmer. For a moment it seemed as though they were the only two people in the entire world, or otherwise at the center of the world, the middle place where everything was still and immune to the ceaseless whirls of the ever-constant change. "I myself could hardly believe it of her. Elizabeth is such a beautiful and lovable creature. Who could bear to even hurt a hair on her head, let alone speak such evil of her?"

"I did not know it then, not the entirety of it, at least, but I do so now," Mary started quietly, her blue eyes bright with the light of enlightenment. "Lady Suffolk was one of my mother's most ardent supporters, as well as a most determined Catholic. Hence, when the Lady Anne took my mother's place and saw to it that England broke with the Holy Fat – I mean, the Pope, Lady Suffolk came to hate her like poison, given that in just one stroke she lost two things that mattered dearly to her: the Queen whom she idolised as the finest of women, and the faith that she had been born and bred in and would have died for if need be. The Lady Anne's disgrace and death had not placated her. Not in the least. There was only a mere change in the recipient of her spite: my sister, Elizabeth, the living breathing reminder of the woman whom she believes to be the scourge of the world."

"That was years ago, my Princess. And the Lady Anne has more than paid for whatever wrongs she has done. You said it yourself."

"It is beyond some people to forget old errors. I believe Lady Suffolk is one of them."

"Do you think that this would be enough for her? To make her see sense? Or do you think she would just recuperate, and reassess her pursuit of an objective that no one wants her to pursue?"

Mary thought of the chilly way Catherine Brandon had eyed her sister, the fire of deadly resentment in the brown gaze, the uncompromising set and unyielding line of the full mouth, how her hands had clenched and unclenched as if aching to strangle, and the aura of menace about her. "I wish I knew," she sighed. "But I do not. I can neither foresee the future nor look into one's soul. All I know is that she could be a danger. A terror. Especially to my Beth. She looks at her as if she would wish her away."

Philip drew Mary closer to him. "You might underestimate your own abilities at reading a person, my beloved, but I do not. I want you to take a deep breath, clear your mind of all other thoughts, summon up the entirety of your intuition, your experiences of the past, and your understandings of her, and then speak out: do you think she dabbles in witchcraft? Do you believe that she cast spells? Do you think she would ill-wish your sister?"

At those questions – those questions that terrified a true God-fearing Christian more than anything else in the world – Mary turned to look at the man she secretly adored, her face pale and her eyes wide. Nothing could have prepared her for this. "Mother of God, why are you asking me all these, Your Grace?"

Philip's black-brown orbs were now intense with a grim dark seriousness that made it as plain as day that he was not joking. His sensual mouth was now pressed into the thinnest of thin smiles. "I have been hearing terrible things, my Princess."

"About what? From where?"

"Court whispers, country gossip, the like. Your former-friend is growing to be hated, my love. Hated with a _vengeance,_ in fact. I do not know whom, how, or why, but tongues have been wagging and spite had been spread. They are now saying that Catherine Brandon had seduced and married the Duke of Suffolk through love potions and witchcraft. They say that she is a murderess who threatens your sister, the Princess Elizabeth, at every opportunity, and would poison her if she could. They say that she blasted the children in the Lady Anne's womb and made her barren through deals with the Devil so that she would be vulnerable to her enemies. God, they even say that she made your father, the King, impotent with the Lady Anne so he had to kill her to regain his manhood."

Mary went as white as the pearls set on the gold chain around her neck and for a fleeting superstitious moment she wished she had been wearing her mother's crucifix instead. "By the Blessed Virgin, they say this publicly?! Has the King and Queen heard of it?"

"From what I know, the worst of it is kept from them, but someone is bound to tell them sooner or later."

"Would they believe it?"

Philip sighed heavily. "It is not hard for them to, love. You know it. It is common knowledge that the King now views the Lady Suffolk as his enemy. And I can assure you that the Queen my cousin has never had a good opinion of her to begin with, and her thoughtless foolish behaviour with regards to Elizabeth has intensified that dislike significantly. The only thing either of them needs now is an excuse. The Queen would not go as far as to claim a life, but for the King…"

There was no need for Philip to elaborate further. Mary herself understood better than anyone ever could. After all, had she not seen her father at both his very best and his very worst? Was she not one of those who had felt the impacts of his magnanimousness and his wrath most acutely?

"But we need neither lies nor rumours nor nonsense, my Princess. What we need is the truth. The simple honest truth. Believe or not, my Princess, you have the rare precious gift of seeing the truth and speaking true, and you are more skilled at reading people than you think. That is why I want you to focus, see, and tell us if Lady Suffolk is really an evil witch who would go to any lengths to achieve her goals, and even curse your sister to be rid of her?"

Mary lapsed into silence as she thought of Catherine Brandon, with her hard hazel eyes and her arrogantly high nose and her increasingly false smile, trying to analyse her as a studious monk would a tedious Latin manuscript. "No." She said at last. "As God is my witness, I do not know if she had seduced the Duke of Suffolk, or had had a hand in Lady Anne's infertility and death, but I am perfectly certain that she is not a witch. It is just not in her to touch things such as spells or potions or curses. I know she would not. She may hate my Beth desperately and wish her dead, but she also has a very great care to her immortal soul. She is the only one I know who takes the holy bread and wine every day, as if it were her breakfast, and from what I have heard, we share a habit of ordering the services of our homes to run to the daily order of a monastery, and like Beth and I she attends at least half of them regularly, even the offices of the night on holy days. I also remember her confiding in me that she even fasts every Friday and on holy days, swearing that nothing would keep her from claiming her reserved place in Heaven. She might now be a cold and hard-hearted and critical and bitter creature, but she is definitely not a witch in league with Satan."

"But that is bad enough, my Princess," Philip remarked, his face grave. "She is definitely a woman to be reckoned with. Good often has a way to losing to sin, whether intentional or not. A woman like her can always hire someone to the dirty work for her. Should she be watched, my Princess?"

Mary considered Catherine Brandon's growing depravity and, for once in a long time, the witty and charming Charles Brandon – the good friend whom she was once sure of, but now held some suspicions about. She did not know how or why, but something about the rumours about her former-friend having killed Elizabeth's mother had struck a chord in her, stirring up sensations that told her that the couple were keeping secrets too dark to ever bear the light of day. "Yes," she found herself saying. "Yes. They should both be watched. Her and her husband. I did not see it before, but I do so now. There is much, much more to them both than meets the eye."

"Consider it done, my Princess. Consider it done. But…" Mary suddenly found powerful arms encircling her waist, and that if she looked up her and Philip's lips would brush. Gone was the seriousness and grimness of the warrior who sensed impending danger, in place of it was the mischief and demand of the endlessly persistent lover. "Nothing is free in this world. I always demand a price for every favour I do, even if it is for the mate of my soul and the mother of my children. Would you like to know what my price is for this, lovely love?"


	25. Chapter 25

"My, my, how unseemly." A baritone as alluring and dangerous and deep as that of Philip's sounded as Don Luis approached the pair. "How unseemly for a mere Duke to demand _favours_ from a high and mighty Princess of England. Surely a personage as illustrious as her deserves much, much better treatment than _this._"

Mary almost rolled her eyes as Philip turned to look at Don Luis without releasing his hold on her, an icy smile on his lips.

It was becoming common knowledge that the two had been adversaries since the Prince of Portugal arrived in England, though a certain Spanish-Tudor Princess would deny to the death that it was solely because of her. Thus far the hostilities had not broken into open bloodshed (as far as her knowledge extends, that is), but Mary unconsciously sensed that it was only a matter of time.

No matter, if anything happens, she would just deny all knowledge of it and take Elizabeth back with her to Hunsdon. Call her a Peter, but it would be a severe insult upon her pride to acknowledge that she was the mare over which two otherwise impeccably-bred horses went wild and unreasonable and stupid over, and resorted as far as to fighting to the death over.

In the meantime…she supposed she could observe the play of them taking ridiculous delight in goading each other.

"And this was supposed to be a perfectly private conversation between a _man_ and a _woman._ I am a Son of Adam, and the Princess Mary is a Daughter of Eve. In God's eye, all are equal. But of course, how could I expect a fool to understand that?" Philip mocked.

A slow dark smile spread over the handsome face of Don Luis of Portugal, his intimidating figure radiated a silent menace that seemed to contrast the shades of green that he was swathed in, as if he were a herald spirit reminding one that death was possible even if in the life-symbolising spring. Mary caught the glint in his blue eyes that hinted at her ruthless will, and reaffirmed her initial opinion of him being a man of ice, and that there was more to him than the pretty pleasant face that he had been determinedly projecting to her since his arrival. It was inevitable that females will find him handsome and irresistible, but Mary knew that he could never claim the easy yet beguiling Bavarian charm of Philip: the German Duke wore the aura of clear, crisp mountain air like an invisible cloak, which reminded her of the days where she had been a little girl and fancied herself a nymph free to run wild in the natures of England without a care in the world. Philip of Bavaria smelled like freedom, like passion, while she sensed the nauseating stench of duty and obligation and restriction beneath Don Luis' cologne.

It was only when the two men stood eye-to-eye did something else strike her: their heights and statures seemed to share an eerie similarity, as if fate had intended them all along to be sworn mutual enemies.

_If they were to really get into a duel, who would win then? They seem to be too equally-matched in all aspects…_

"It takes a fool to know a fool, Your Grace." Don Luis taunted. "We may be all Sons of Adam and Daughters of Eve, but it should never be forgotten that God has given Adam the full unquestioned rule over Eve's sex. But I would never dream of blaming you for not knowing what everyone else with _sense_ would know, for you are one who enjoys having your head in the clouds."

Mary nipped her lower lip with fine white teeth. Yes, she knew about _"Your desire will be for your husband, but he will rule over you"_, but she had – Mother of God, please forgive her for this – never been fond of it, and there was something in the manner that Don Luis expressed it that made her, for a moment only, _frightened._

_ Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for me, for Beth, and for all innocent women out there. Preserve us all from threats and dangers such as these, for they are the greatest of terrors to us. Lady, you who understand so well the hearts and sorrows of women, please intercede with your son to deliver us all from the evils of man's hearts…_

"Do not think that you can intimidate or frighten or force me." Philip drawled, his eyes flashing like amber, his face now in a fierce snarl that, if anything, served to make him look more handsome. "It would be a lethal mistake."

Taking advantage of Philip's brief distraction, Mary slipped out of his grasp. "Since my presence is obviously superfluous, I will leave you two to entertain each other," she muttered.

Don Luis stepped smoothly towards her, stretching out his hand as the threat in his face and voice dissolved into the glamour and lilting warmth of the handsome habitual liar. "Forgive me, Princess –"

The words had barely left his mouth when he was abruptly slammed against a tree, Philip's hand wrapped around his throat.

Shocked beyond expression by the swift violence, not to mention Philip's considerable strength and speed, Mary hurried to the Duke's side, laying a cautious hand on his shoulder.

"Your Grace, no," she said, her voice a mere whisper underlined with layers of indomitable will and steely determination. It was not particularly wise to startle the Duke she loved, whom she now realised had the potential to be more dangerous than she had ever imagined. "Stop this at once."

There was a tense moment when Don Luis' life seemed to hang in the balance; then, with a low snarl, Philip tossed his rival aside and turned to grab Mary, his brown eyes flashing with a stark love-stirred hunger.

"Take heed, my exquisite little Princess. My desire for you is swiftly consuming me," he rasped. "I will not wait much longer."

Her heart slammed against her chest, but not in fear, despite the fingers digging into her shoulders and the passionate glitter in the soulful black-brown eyes.

_No. _It was _pure exhilaration_ racing through her blood.

"What madness has come over you that you should threaten even me so, Your Grace?" she breathed.

He framed her face in his hands, staring deep into her eyes before lowering his head to cover her mouth with an astonishingly sweet, undeniably gentle kiss.

"A promise, nothing more," he whispered against her lips; then, with a muttered curse, he abruptly released her and went away.

Mary pressed her fingers to her lips; feeling shattered as always whenever kisses between her and Philip ended. She had sensed the volatile emotions that lurked just below the surface when Philip was near. _This must what be like to stand in the middle of an alchemist's laboratory,_ she thought, _always acutely aware that the brewing concoctions might suddenly explode._

Hearing a faint noise, she smoothed the turmoil from her flawless alabaster face. She did not need anyone, especially the Prince of Portugal, to know of her unwelcome yet overwhelming vulnerability to the Duke Philip of Bavaria.

She was prepared as Don Luis approached her, looking as deceptively serene and scandalously handsome as if he had been just gracing one of her father's balls instead of being almost killed by the man he hated with a vengeance. There was no hint of embarrassment, no trace of mortification, as if the incident had never even _happened_ to begin with. Mary had to admire his control – it must be no easy feat for a Prince of the Blood Royal to maintain his dignity after having his pride irrevocably wounded by one who was indisputably his social inferior in birth, in consequence, and in expectations.

However, his now-obvious view on the fairer sex was distasteful in the extreme to her. Yes, Eve might have been the first to partake of the Forbidden Fruit, but Adam could have refused, right?

_Wait, wait, wait, now where did __that thought__ come from? I have never thought of it or looked at the matter this way before. _

Inside, Don Luis was seething. He was accustomed to being the master of any situation he undertook. He was not only a future King, but also one of the Holy Roman Emperor's most powerful and trusted allies, and his reputation as a formidable warrior was unquestioned throughout Europe. But now a mere German Duke had effectively proven that he was capable of choking the life out of him, and he had done so right in front of the young Princess who was going to be his future Queen.

_It was insufferable!_

Clearly, assassination was ineffective, or his agents would have reported back to him long ago. He would have to try other alternatives.

"Please accept my humblest, most sincere apologies for having you witness such a scene, Princess," he said courteously, eyes lingering for a moment on her mouthwatering décolletage. _Oh my, her skin looks so soft, so pure, like cream, and those breasts are like the most delicate pastries. I can hardly wait to taste them. _"As God is my witness, I had no intention of causing you any trouble or distress."

"Rest assured that no offense has been taken on my part, Your Grace," Mary responded with quiet dignity, the disturbed young woman completely disappearing again behind the mask of the Princess of England. Neither her smile nor her eyes betrayed her heart. "It is my understanding that even the best of men cannot always keep their emotions under control, and that there are times where we tend to forget ourselves, especially when the simmer of anger heats to a boil. Besides, I have already witnessed sights and experienced events that make what has occurred seem like child's play. Let us just dismiss that as an unfortunate event that would not happen again."

Don Luis was far from appeased. "Princess, I –"

_"Princess?! Princess?! Your Grace?! Oh, there you are!"_

As a scowl marred Don Luis' handsome features and his dark eyes smoldered with hatred by this interruption, Mary stared in shock at the sight of Katherine Ashley running towards her, her hood askew, her face flushed, her eyes frighteningly wide with unmistakable alarm and horror, and her skirts swishing out of order. "Mrs. Ashley, what is it? What has happened?"

"It is your sister, Her Grace the Princess Elizabeth. The doctors are currently with her."


End file.
